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SOCIALISM IN ACTION 


It 13 the distinguishing feature of the Labor Movement that it 
strives after the attainment of a soeial state for every human 
being, such as shall be the healthy stimulation of all his good 
qualities, while "his bad tendencies shall wither and drop away 
from him by the impossibility of their sustenance. 

To get at this conception of the possible life cf man, has re- 
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has been the lesson nature has afforded for the study of her 
methods, and this ceaseless repetition has finally awakened man to 
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for those who desire to take part in its furtherance we would com- 
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The main purpose of this publication was to issue the transla- 
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of the study and experience he has illustrated in the construction 
and organization of the FAMILISTERE. 

Though the translation of this most important demonstration of 
the new life for labor was announced when it was prepared, by one 
of the chief publishers of this country, yet being abandoned on the 
ground “the labor question was too exciting,” it remained in 
manuscript until, in the course of events, a more progressive pub- 
lisher wa3 found. In its preparation the plan adopted was that 
of twelve parts, each of which should contain such illustrative 
material as the editor should either find or prepare. The tw elve 
parts are now published and for sale. While the complete trans- 
lation of M. Godin’ 8 work is contained in eleven of the parts, the 
twelfth part is an admirable and complete exposition of the series 
of social solutions proposed by the Credit Foncier of Sinaloa, for 
the organization of tLlti society on Topolobampo Bay, in Sinaloa, 
Mexico, wmcn has been gathered by the Credit Foncier of Sinaloa 
a paper published at Hammonton, New Jersey, at $1.00 a year. * 

* Social Solutions, published In 12 parts in LovelPs Library, price 10 cents 
each, or the 12 parts for $i.oo. 


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Opinions of Eminent Men about 


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44 Incidentally It affords a view of political subversion In Alabama. If the 
ballot-box throughout the country were juggled with and polluted as it is in 
South Carolina, Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, the Republic 
of the United. States would be at an end. It is plain that the author writes 
as an eye-witness.”— Cincinnati Commercial Gazette. 

44 A sprightly story, graphic in description, and full of exciting incidents ." 
— Chicago Inter-Ocean. 

44 The style is easy and graceful.”— Chicago Times. 

44 Told with much vigor and shows no little dramatic power.”— Zion's 
Herald. 

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44 Mr. Tuppar is a terse writer, clear In portrayal, elevated la sentiment, 
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' Solutions Sociales” translated by Marie Howland. ' 


“Social Solutions,” a semi-monthly pamphlet, containing each 
& twelfth part of an admirable English translation of M. Godin's state- 
ment of the course of study which led him to conceive the Social 
Palace at Guise, France. There is no question that this publication 
makes an era in the growth of the labor question. It should serve as 
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will as surely lead to the destruction of the wages system as the abolv 
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Published as regular issues of the “Loyell Library,” by the 
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JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

14 and 16 Yesey Street, 


NETT YORK. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 




BY 


WILLIAM BLACK, 

*■ * >« * 


AUTHOR OF 


••A MtlNCBSS OP THULE,’* " TrfE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A 
PHAETON,” “A DAUGHTER OF HETH,” ETC., ETC. 



NEW YORK: 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

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S U if A\ S 

\ . > * ■■ 


WILLIAM BLACK 


S WORKS 


A. 


CONTAINED IN LOVELL 


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40 An Adventure in Thule, etc, 

48 A Princess of Thule, 

82 A Daughter of Heth, . . 

85 Shandon Bells, 

93 Macleod of Dare, . . . 

136 Yolande, . 

142 Strange Adventures of a Phaeton, 
146 White Wings, 

153 Sunrise, 2 Parts, each . • 

178 Madcap Violet, . . . 

180 Kilmeny, .... 

182 That Beautiful Wretch, . 

184 Green Pastures, etc., 

188 In Silk Attire, ... 

213 The Three Feathers, . . 

216 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart, 

217 The Four MacNicols, . . 

218 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M. P., 
225 Oliver Goldsmith, 

232 Monarch of Mincing Lane, . 
456 Judith Shakespeare, . . 

£84 Wise Women of Inverness, 


TMWI 

Hwriu AND BOOKD1NMN4 DOMMNV, 

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MACLEOD OE DARE 


CHAPTER L 

THE SIX BOYS OF DARE. 

The sun had sunk behind the lonely western seas ; Diva, 
and Lunga, and the Dutchman’s Cap had grown dark on the 
darkening waters ; and the smooth Atlantic swell was boom- 
ing along the sombre caves; but up herein Castle Dare, on 
the high and rocky coast of Mull, the great hall was lit with 
such a blaze of candles as Castle Dare had but rarely seen. 
And yet there did not seem to be any grand festivities going 
forward ; for there were only three people seated at one end 
of the long and narrow table ; and the banquet that the faith- 
ful Hamish had provided for them was of the most frugal 
kind. At the head of the table sat an old lady with silvery- 
white hair and proud and fine features. It would have been 
a keen and haughty face but for the unutterable sadness of 
th? eyes — blue-gray eyes under black eyelashes that must 
have been beautiful enough in her youth, but were now 
dumped and worn, as if the weight of the world’s sorrows had 
been too much for the proud, high spirit. On the right of 
Lady Macleod sat the last of her six sons, Keith by name, a 
tall, sparely built, sinewy young fellow, with a sun-tanned 
cheek and crisp and curling hair, and with a happy and care- 
less look in his clear eyes and about his. mouth that rather 
blinded one to the firm lines of his face. Glad youth shone 
there, and the health begotten of hard exposure to wind and 


2 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


weather. What was life to him but a laugh : so long as there 
was a prow to cleave the plunging seas, aid a glass to pick 
out the branching antlers far away amidst the mists of the 
corrie ? To please his mother, on this the last night of his 
being at home, he wore the kilts; and he had hung his broad 
blue bonnet, with its sprig of juniper — the badge of the clan 
— on the top of one of many pikes and halberds that stood 
by the great fireplace. Opposite him, on the old lady’s left 
hand, sat his cousin, or rather half-cousin, the plain-featured 
but large-hearted Janet, whom the poor people about that 
neighborhood regarded as being something more than any 
mere mortal woman. If there had been any young artist 
among that Celtic peasantry fired by religious enthusiasm to 
paint the face of a Madonna, it would have been the plain 
features of Janet Macleod he would have dreamed about and 
striven to transfer to his canvas. Her eyes were fine, it is 
true : they were honest and tender; they were not unlike the 
eyes of the grand old lady who sat at the head of the table ; 
but, unlike hers, they were not weighted with the sorrow of 
years. 

“ It is a dark hour you have chosen to go away from your 
home,” said the mother; and the lean hand, resting on the 
table before her, trembled somewhat. 

“ Why, mother,” the young man said, lightly, “ you know 

I am to have Captain ’s cabin ^as far as Greenock ; and 

there will be plenty of time for me to put the kilts away be- 
fore I am seen by the people.” 

“ Oh, Keith,” his cousin cried — for she was trying to be 
very cheerful, too — “ do you say that you are ashamed of the 
tartan ? ” 

“ Ashamed of the tartan ! ” he said, with a laugh. “ Is 
there any one who has been brought up at Dare who is likely 
to be ashamed of the tartan ! When I am ashamed of the 
tartan 1 will put a pigeon’s feather in my cap, as the new 
suaicheantas of this branch of Clann Leoid. But then, my 
good Janet, I would as soon think of taking my rifle and the 
dogs through the streets of London as of wearing the kilts in 
the south.” 

The old lady paid no heed. Her hands were now clasped 
before her. There was sad thinking in her eyes. 

“ You are the last of my six boys,” said she, “ and you are 
going away from me too.” 

“ Now, now, mother,” said he, “ you must not make so 


MACLEOD OF DARK. 


3 

much of a holiday. You would not have me always at Dare ? 
You know that no good comes of a stay-at-home.” 

She knew the proverb. Her other sons had not been 
stay-at-homes. What had come to them ! 

Of Sholto, the eldest, the traveller, the dare-devil, the 
grave is unknown ; but the story of how he met his death, in 
far Arizona, came years after to England and to Castle Dare 
He sold his life dearly, as became one of his race and name. 
When his cowardly attendants found a band of twenty 
Apaches riding down on them, they unhitched the mules and 
‘galloped off, leaving him to confront the savages by himself. 
One of these, more courageous than his fellows, advanced 
and drew his arrow to the barb ; the next second he uttered 
a yell, and rolled from his saddle to the ground, shot through 
the heart Macleod seized this instant, when the savages 
were terror-stricken by the precision of the white man’s 
weapons, to retreat a few yards and get behind a mesquit- 
tree. Here he was pretty well sheltered from the arrows that 
th -y sent in clouds about him, while he succeeded in kill- 
ing other two of his enemies who had ventured to approach. 
At last they rode off : and it seemed as though he would be 
permitted to rejoin his dastardly comrades. But the Indians 
had only gone to windward to set the tall grass on fire ; and 
presently he had to scramble, burned and blinded, up the 
tree, where he was an easy mark for their arrows. Fortu- 
nately, when he fell he was dead. This was the story told 
by some friendly Indians to a party of white men, and subse- 
quently brought home to Castle Dare. 

The next four of the sons of Dare were soldiers, as most 
of the Macleods of that family had been. And if you ask 
about the graves of Roderick and Ronald, what is one to say ? 
They are known, and yet unknown. The two lads were in 
one of the Highland regiments that served in the Crimea. 
They both lie buried on the bleak plains outside Sevastopol. 
And if the memorial stones put up to them and their brothei 
officers are falling into ruin and decay — if the very graves 
have been rifled — how is England to help that ? England is 
the poorest country in the world. There was a talk some 
two or three years ago of putting up a monument on Cath- 
cart Hill to the Englishmen who died in the Crimea ; and 
that at least would have been some token of remem- 
brance, even if we could not collect the scattered remains of 
our slain sons, as the French have done, but then that mon- 
ument would have cost ^5000. How could England afford 


4 


A/,-1 1 . 1 r.i >u ( *r lsst >< F.. 

^5000 ? When n big American city takes tire, or when a dis- 
trict in France is inundated, she can put her hand into hei 
pocket deeply enough ; but how can we expect so proud a 
mother to think twice about her children who perished in 
fighting for her ? Happily the dead are independent of for- 
getfulness. 

Duncan the Fair-haired — Donacha Ban, they called him. 
far and wide among the hills — lies buried in a jungle on the 
African coast. He was only twenty-three when he was killed : 
but he knew he had got the Victoria Cross. As he lay dy- w 
ing, he asked whether the people in England would send it 
to his mother, showing that his last fancies w r ere still about 
Castle Dare. 

And Hector ? As you cross the river at Sadowa, and pass 
through a bit of forest, some cornfields begin to appear, and 
these stretch away up to the heights of Chlum. Along the 
ridge there, by the side of the wood, are many mounds of 
earth. Over the grave of Hector Macleod is no proud and 
pathetic inscription such as marks the last resting-place of a 
young lieutenant who perished at Gravelotte — Er ruht soft 
in wiedererkampfter deutscher Erde — but the young Highland 
officer w r as well beloved by his comrades, and when the dead 
were being pitched into the great holes dug foT them, and 
when rude hands w r ere preparing the simple record, painted 
on a wooden cross — “ Hier liegen — tapfere Krieger ” — a separate 
memento W’as placed over the grave of Under-lieutenant Hec- 
tor Macleod of the th Imperial and Royal Cavalry Regi- 

ment. He w r as one of the two sons who had not inherited 
the title. Was it not a proud boast for this white-haired lady 
in Mull that she had been the mother of four baronets ? 
What other mother in all the land could say as much ? And 
yet it was that that had dimmed and saddened the beautiful 
eyes. 

And now her youngest — -her Benjamin, her best-beloved 
— -he was going away from her too. It was not enough that 
the big deer forest, the last of the possessions of the Mac- 
leods of Dare, had been kept intact for him, when the letting 
of it to a rich Englishman would greatly have helped the fail- 
ing fortunes of the family ; it was not enough that the poor 
people about, knowing Lady Macleod’s washes, had no 
thought of keeping a salmon spear hidden in the thatch of 
their cottages. Salmon and stag could no longer bind him 
to the place. The young blood stirred. And when he asked 


MACLEOD Or DACE. ^ 

her what. good things came of being a stay-at-home, what 
could she say ? 

Suddenly old Hamish threw wide the oaken doors at the 
end of the hall, and there was a low roar like the roaring of 
lions. And then a young lad, with the pipes proudly perched 
on his shoulder, marched in with a stately step, and joyous 
and shrill arose the Salute. Three times he marched round 
the long and narrow hall, finishing behind Keith Macleod’s 
chair The young man turned to him. 

“ It was well played, Donald; ” said he, in the Gaelic ; 
“ and I will tell you that the Skye College in the old times 
never turned out a better pupil. And will you take a glass 
of whiskey now, or a glass of claret ? And it is a great pity 
your hair is red, or they would call you Donull Dubh, and 
people would say you were the born successor of the last of 
the MacCruimins.” 

At this praise — imagine telling a piper lad that he was a 
fit successor of the MacCruimins, the hereditary pipers of the 
Macleods — the young stripling blushed hot ; but he did not 
forget his professional dignity for all that. And he was so 
proud of his good English that he replied in that tongue. 

“ I will take a glass of the claret wine, Sir Keith,” said 
he. 

Young Macleod took up a horn tumbler, rimmed with 
silver, and having the triple-towered castle of the Macleods 
engraved on it, and filled it with. wine. He handed it to the 
lad. 

“ I drink your health, Lady Macleod,” said he, when he 
had removed his cap ; “ and I drink your health, Miss Mac- 
leod; and I drink your health, Sir Keith ; and I would have 
a lighter heart this night if I was going with you away to 
England.” 

It was a bold demand. 

“ I cannot take you with me, Donald ; the Macleods have 
got out of the way of taking their piper with them now. You 
must stay and look after the dogs.” 

a But you are taking Oscar with you, Sir Keith.” 

“ Yes, I am. I must make sure of having one friend with 
me in the south.” 

“ And I think I would be better than a collie,” muttered 
the lad to himself, as he moved off in a proud and hurt way 
toward the door, his cap still in his hand. 

And now a great silence fell over these three ; and Janet 
Macleod looked anxiously toward the old- lady, who sat un 


6 


MACr.f'.OD OF DARE. 

mo;»d in the face of the ordeal through which she knew she 
must pass. It was an old custom that each night a pibroch 
should be played in Castle Dare in remembrance of her five 
slain sons ; and yet on this one night her niece would fain 
have seen that custom abandoned. For was not the pibroch 
the famous and pathetic “ Cumhadh na Cloinne,” the Lament 
for the Children, that Patrick Mor, one of the pipers of Mac 
leod of Skye, had composed to the memory of his seven sons, 
who had all died within one year ? And now the doors were 
opened, and the piper boy once more entered. The wild, sad 
wail arose : and slow and solemn was the step with which he 
walked up the hall. Lady Macleod sat calm and erect, her 
lips proud and firm, but her lean hands were working ner- 
vously together ; and at last, when the doors were closed oil 
the slow and stately and mournful Lament for the Children, 
she bent down the silvery head on those wrinkled hands and 
wept aloud. Patrick Mor’s seven brave sons could have 
been no more to him than her six tall lads had been to her; 
and now the last of them was going away from her. 

“Do you know,” said Janet, quickly, to her cousin across 
the table, “ that it is said no piper in the West Highlands can 
play ‘Lord Lovat’s Lament’ like our Donald ?” 

“ Oh yes, he plays it very well ; and he has got a good 
step,” Macleod said. “ But you will tell him to play no more 
Laments to-night. Let him take to strathspeys if any of the 
». «ds come up after bringing back the boat. It will be time 
enough for him to make a Lament for me when I am dead. 
Come, mother, have you no message for Norman Ogilvie ? ” 

The old lady had nerved herself again, though her hands 
were still trembling. 

“ I hope he will come back with you, Keith,” she said. 

“ For the shooting ? No, no, mother. He w^as not fit for 
the shooting about here : I have seen that long ago. Do you 
think he could lie for an hour in a w r et bog? It was up at 
Fort William I saw him last year, and I said to him, * Do you 
wear gloves at Aldershot ? ’ His hands were as w r hite the 
hands of a woman.” 

“ It is no woman’s han I you have, Keith,” his ^cousin 
said ; “ it is a soldier’s hand.” 

“ .Yes,” said he, with his face flushing, “ and if I had had 
Norman Ogilvie’s chance — ” 

But he paused. Could he reproach this old dame, on 
the very night of his departure, with having disappointed all 
those dreams of military service and glory that are almost the 


7 


MA CL ROD OF I)A RE. 

natural inheritance of. a Macleod of the Western Highlands? 
If he was a stay-at-home, at least his hands were not white. 
And yet, when young Ogilvie and he studied under the same 
tutor — the poor man had to travel eighteen miles between 
the two houses, many a time in hard weather — all the talk 
and aspirations of the boys were about a soldier’s life ; 
and Macleod could show his friend the various trophies, ana 
curiosit'es sent home by his elder brothers from all parts of 
ths woild. And now the lily-fingered and gentle-natured 
Og’lvie was at Aldershot ; while he — what else was he than 
a mere deer-stalker and salmon-killer ? 

“ Ogilvie has been very kind to me, mother,” he said, 
laughing. “ He has sent me a list of places in London 
where I am to get my clothes, and boots, and a hat ; and by 
the time I have done that, he will be up from Aldershot, anc 
will lead me about— with a string round my neck, I suppose 
lest I should bite somebody.” 

“ You could not go better to London than in your own 
tartan,” said the proud mother ; “ and it is not for an Ogilvie 
to say how a Macleod should be dressed. But it is no matter, 
one after the other has gone; the house is left empty at 
last. And they all went away lil^e you, with a laugh on their 
face. It was but a trip, a holiday, they said : they would 
soon be back to Dare. And where are they this night? ” 

Old Hamish came in. 

“ It will be time for the boat now, Sir Keith, and the 
men are down at the shore.” 

He rose, the handsome young fellow, and took his broad, 
blue bonnet with the badge of juniper. 

“Good-by, cousin Janet,” said he, lightly. “Good-by, 
mother. You are not going to send me away in this sad 
fashion ?. What am I to bring you back — a satin gown from 
Paris ? or a young bride to cheer up the old house ? ” 

I ^he took no heed of the passing jest. He kissed her, 
aqd bade her good-by once more. The clear stars were 
shining over Castle Dare, and over the black shadows of the 
mountains, and the smoothly swelling waters of the Atlantic. 
There was a dull booming,of the waves along the rocks. 

He had thrown his pl$d round him, and he was wondet 
ing to. himself as he descended the steep path to the shore. 
He could not believe that the two women were really sad- 
dened by his going to the south for awhile; he was not 
given to forebodings. And he had nearly reached the shore, 
when he was overtaken by some one running, with a lighi 


5 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


step behind him. He turned quickly, and found his cousin be- 
fore him, w shawl thrown round her head and shoulders. 

“Oh Keith / 7 said she, in a bright and matter-of-fact 
way, “ S have a message for you— from myself — and 1 did 
not want aunt to hear, for she is very proud, you know, and 
I hope you won’t be. You know we are all very poor, Keith; 
and ) et you must not want money in London, if only for the 
sake of the family ; and you know I have a little, Keith, and 
1 want you to take it. You won’t mind my being frank with 
you. I have written a letter .’ 1 

She had the envelope in her hand. 

“And if I would take money from any one, it would be 
from you, Cousin Janet ; but I am not so selfish as that. What 
would all the poor people, do if I were to take your money 
to London and spend it?” 

“ I have kept a little,” said she, “ and it i$ not much that 
is needed. It is £2000 I would like you to take from me, 
Keith. I have written a letter.” 

“ Why, bless me, Janet, that is nearly all the money 
you’ve got ! ” 

“ I know it.” 

“ Well, I may not be able to earn any money for myself, 
but at least I would not think of squandering your little for- 
tune. No, no ; but I thank you all the same, Janet; and I 
know that it is with a free heart that you offer it.” 

“But this is a favor, Keith,” said she. “I do not ask 
you, to spend the money. But you might be in trouble ; and 
you would be too proud to ask any one — perhaps you would 
not even ask me ; and here is a letter that you can keep till 
then, and if you should, want the money, you can open the 
letter, and it will tell you how to get it.” 

“And it is a poor forecast you are making, Cousin Janet,” 
said he, cheerfully. “ I. am to play the prodigal son, then? 
But I will take the letter. And good-bye again, Janet ; and 
God bless you, for you are a kind-hearted woman.” 

She went swiftly up to Castle Dare again, andj&he 
w diked on toward the shore. By-and-by he reached a small 
stone pier that ran out among some rocks, and by the side 
of it lay a small sailing launch, with four men in her, and 
Donald the ] per boy perched tip at the bow. There was a 
lamp swinging at her mast, but she had no sail up,for there 
was scarcely any wind. 

“Is it time to go out now?” said Macleod to a famish 


9 


MAC Ikon OF DARE. 

who stood waiting on the pier, having carried down hi* 
master’s portmanteau. 

" Ay, it will be time now, even if you will wait a little/ 
said Hamish. And then the old man added, "It is a dark 
night, Sir Keith, for your going away from Castle Dare.” 

"And it will be the brighter morning when I come back,* 
answered the young man, for he could not mistake the inten 
tion of the words. 

"Yes, indeed, Sir Keith; and now you will go into the 
boat, and you will take care of your footing, for the night is 
dark, and the rocks they are always slippery whatever.” 

But Keith Macleod’s foot was as familiar with the soft 
seaweed of the rocks as it was with the hard heather of the 
hills, and he found no difficulty in getting into the broad- 
beamed boat. The men put out their oars and pushed her 
off. And now, in the dark night, the skirl of the pipes rose 
again ; and it was no stately and mournful lament that young 
Donald played up there at the bow as the four oars struck 
the sea and sent a flash of white fire down into the deeps. 

“ Donald,” Hamish had said to him on the shore, "when 
you are going out to the steamer, it is the ‘Seventy-ninth’s 
Farewell to Chubralter ’ that you will play, and you will play 
no other thing than that.” 

And surely the Seventy-ninth were not sorry to leave 
Gibraltar when their piper composed for them so glad a fare- 
well. 

At the high windows of Castle Dare the mother stood, and 
her niece, and as they watched the yellow lamp move slowly 
out from the black shore, they heard this proud and joyous 
march that Donald was playing to herald the approach of his 
master. They listened to it as it grew fainter and fainter, 
and as the small yellow star trembling over the dark waters 
became more and more remote. And then this other sound 
— this blowing of a steam whistle far away in the darkness ? 

" He will be in good time, aunt ; she is a long way off 
fet,” said Janet Macleod. But the mother did not speak. 

Out there on the dark and moving waters the great 
steamer Was Slowly drawing near the open boat ; and as she 
came up, the vast hull of her, seen against the starlit sky, 
seemed a mountain. 

" Now, Donald,” Macleod called out, " you will take the 
dog — here is the str.ng ; and you will see he does not spring 
into the water.” 

“ Yes, I will take the dog,” muttered the boy, half to 


lo MACLEOD OF DARE. 

himself. “ Oh yes, I will take the dog ; but it is better if I 
was going with you, Sir Keith, than any dog.” 

A rope was thrown out, the boat dragged up to the side 
of the steamer, the small gangway let down, and presently 
Macleod was on the deck of the large vessel. Then Oscar 
was hauled up too, and the rope flung loose, and the boat 
drifted away into the darkness. But the last good-bye had 
not been said, for over the black waters came the sound of 
pipes once more, the melancholy wail of “Macintosh’s 
Lament.” 

“ Confound that obstinate brat ! ” Macleod said to him- 
self. “ Now he will go back to Castle Dare and make the 
women miserable.” 

“ The captain is below at his supper, Sir Keith,” said the 
mate. “ Will you go down to him ? ” 

“ Yes, I will go down to him,” said he ; and he made his 
way along the deck of the steamer. 

He was arrested by the sound of some one crying, and he 
looked down, and found a woman crouched under the bul- 
warks, with two small children asleep on her knee. 

“ My good woman, what is the matter with you ? ” said 
he. 

“ The night is cold,” she said in the Gaelic, “ and my 
children are cold ; and it is a long way that we are going.” 

He answered her in her own tongue. 

“ You will be warmer if you go below ; but here is a plaid 
for you, anyway ; ” and with that he took the plaid from 
round his shoulders and flung it across the children, and 
passed on. 

That was the way of the Macleods of Dare. They had a 
royal manner with them. Perhaps that was the reason that 
their revenues were now far from royal. 

And meanwhile the red light still burned in the high win- 
dows of Castle Dare, and two women were there looking out 
on the pale stars and the dark sea beneath. They waited 
until they heard the plashing of oars in the small bay below, 
and the message was brought them that Sir Keith had got 
safely on board the great steamer. Then they turned away 
from the silent and empty night, and one of them was weep 
ing bitterly. 

“It is the last of my six sons that has gone from me,” she 
said, coming back to the old refrain, and refusing to be com- 
forted. 

“ And I have lost my brother,” said Janet Macleod, in 


MACI.EOD OF DARE. 


n 


hei simple way. * But he will came back to us, auntie ; and 
then we shall have great doings at Castle Dare.” 


CHAPTER II. 

MENTOR. 

It was with a wholly indescribable surprise and delight 
that Macleocl came upon the life and stir and gayety of Lon- 
don in the sweet June time, when the parks and gardens and 
squares would of themselves have been a sufficient wonder tc 
him. The change from the sombre shores of lochs Na Keal 
and lua, and Scridain to this world of sunlit foliage— the 
golden yellow of the laburnum, the cream-white of the chest 
nuts, the rose-pink of the red hawthorn, and everywhere the 
keen, translucent green of the young lime-trees — was enough 
to fill the heart with joy and gladness, though he had been 
no diligent student of landscape and color. The few days 
he had to spend by himself — while getting properly dressed 
to satisfy the demands of his friend — passed quickly enough. 
He was not at all ashamed of his country-made clothes as he 
watched the whirl of carriages in Piccadilly, or lounged under 
the elms at Hyde Park, with his beautiful silver-white and 
lemon-colored collie attracting the admiration of every pass- 
er-by. Nor had he waited for the permission of Lieutenant 
Ogilvie to make his entrance into, at least, one little corner 
of society. He was recognized in St. James’s Street one 
morning by a noble lady whom he had met once or twice at 
Inverness ; and she, having stopped her carriage, was pleased 
to ask him to lunch with herself and her husband next day. 
To the great grief of Oscar, who had to be shut up by himself, 
Macleod went up next day to Brook Street, and there met 
several people whose names he knew as representatives of 
old Highland families, but who were very English, as it 
seemed to him, in their speech and ways. He was rather 
petted, for he was a handsome lad, and he had high spirits 
and a proud air. And his hostess was so kind as to mention 
that the Caledonian Ball was coming off on the 25th, and of 
course he must come, in the Highland costume ; and as she 
was one of the patronesses, should she give him a voucher ? 


12 


STACf.Rt 7 -> OR DARE. 

Macleod answered, laughingly, that lie would be glad to have 
it, though he did not know what it was; whereupon she was 
pleased to say that no wonder he laughed at the notion of a 
voucher being wanted for any Macleod of Dare. 

One morning a good-looking and slim young man 
knocked at the door of a small house in Bury Street, St. 
James’s, and asked if Sir Keith Macleod was at home. The 
man said he was, and the young gentleman entered. Ilf 
was a most correctly dressed person. His hat, and glovec 
and cane, and long-tailed frock-coat were all beautiful ; but it 
was, perhaps, the tightness of his nether garments, or, per- 
haps, the tightness of his brilliantly-polished boots (which 
were partially covered by white gaiters)* that made him go 
up the narrow little stairs with some precision of caution. 
The door was opened and he was announced. 

“My dear old boy,” said he, “how do you do?” and 
Macleod gave him a grip of the hand that nearly burst one 
of his gloves. 

But at this moment an awful accident occurred. From 
behind the door of the adjacent bedroom, Oscar, the collie, 
sprang forward with an angry growl ; then he seemed to re- 
cognize the situation of affairs, when he saw his master hold- 
ing the stranger’s hand ; then he began to wag his tail ; then 
he jumped up with his fore-paws to give a kindly welcome. 

“ Hang it all, Macleod 1” young Ogilvie cried, with all 
the starch gone out of his manner; “your dog’s all wet? 
What’s the use of keeping a brute like that about the place ? ” 

Alas ! the beautiful, brilliant boots were all besmeared, 
and the white gaiters too, and the horsey-looking nether gar- 
ments. Moreover, the Highland savage, so far from betray 
.ng compunction, burst into a roar of laughter. 

“ My dear fellow,” he cried, “ I put him in my bedroom 
to dry. I couldn’t do more, could I ? He has just been 
in the Serpentine.” 

“ I wish he was there now, with a stone and a string round 
his neck !” observed Lieutenant Ogilvie, looking at his boots ; 
but he repented him of this rash saying, for within a week he 
had offered Macleod £20 for the dog. He might have 
offered twenty dozen of £ 20 , and thrown his polished boots 
and his gaiters too into the bargain, and he would have had 
the same answer. 

Oscar was once more banished into the bedroom ; and 
Mr. Ogilvie sat down, pretending to take no more notice of 
his boots. Macleod put some sherry on the table, and a 


MAC f.EOD LA-' FA ,\E. 

handful of cigars ; his friend asked whether he could not have 
a glass of seltzer-water and a cigarette. 

“ And how do you like the rooms I got for you ? ” 

“There is not much fresh air about them, nor in this 
narrow street,” Macleod said, frankly ; “ but that is no matter 
for I have been out all day — all over London.” 

“ I thought the price was as high as you would care to 
;o,” Ogilvie said ; “ but I forgot you bad come fresh up, with 
our pocket full of money. If you would like something a 
tilde more princely, I ? ll put you up to it.” 

“ And where have 1 got the money ? There are no gold 
mines in the west of Mull. It is you who are Fortunatus.” 

“ By Jove, if you knew how hard a fellow is run at Aider- 
shot,” Mr. Ogilvie remarked, confidentially, “you would 
scarcely believe it. Kvery new batch of fellows who come 
in have 10 be dined all round; and the mess bills are simply 
awful. It’s getting worse and worse ; and then these big 
drinks put one off one’s work so.” 

“ You are studying hard, I suppose,” Macleod said, quite 
gravely. 

“ Pretty well,” said he, stretching out his legs, and petting 
bis pretty mustache with his beautiful white hand. Then he 
added, suddenly, surveying the brown-faced and stalwart 
young fellow before him, “ By Jove, Macleod, I’m glad to 
see you in London. It’s like abreathof mountain air. Don’t 
,1 remember the awful mornings we’ve had together — the rain 
and the mist and the creeping through the bogs ? I believe 
you did your best to kill me. If I hadn’t had the constitu- 
tion of a horse, I should have been killed.” 

“ I should say your big drinks at Aldershot were more 
likely to kill you than going after the deer,” said Macleod, 
“ And will you come up with me this autumn, Ogilvie ? The 
mother will be glad to see you, and Janet, too; though we 
haven’t got any fine young ladies for you to make love to, 
unless you go up to Fort William, or Fort George, or Inver- 
ness. And I was all over the moors before I came away; 
and if there is anything like good weather, we shall have 
plenty of birds this year, for I never saw before such a big 
average of eggs in the nests.” 

“ I wonder you don’t let part of that shooting,” said young 
Ogilvie, who knew well of the straitened circumstances of 
the Macleods of Dare. 

“ The mother won’t have it done,” said Macleod, quite 
simply, “ for she thinks it keeps meat home. But a young 


, 4 MACLEOD OF DARE . 

man cannot always stay at home. It is very good for you, 
Ogilvie, that you have brothers.” 

“ Yes, if i had been the eldest of them,” said Mr. Ogilvie 
“ft is a capital thing to have younger brothers ; it isn t half 
so pleasant when you are the younger brother.” 

“ And will you come up, then, and bury yourself alive at 
Dare ? ” 

“It is awfully good of you to ask me, Macleod; and if 1 
; :an manage it, I will ; but I am afraid there isn’t much 
chance this year. In the meantime, let me give you a hint. 
In London we talk of going down to the Highlands.” 

“ Oh, do you ? I did not think you were so stupid,” 
Macleod remarked. 

“ Why, of course we do. You speak of going up to the 
capital of a country, and of going down to the provinces.” 

“ Perhaps you are right — no doubt you are right ; but it 
sounds stupid,” the unconvinced Highlander observed again. 
“ It sounds stupid to say going up to the south, and going 
down to the north. And how can you go down to the High- 
lands ? you might go down to the Lowlands. But no doubt 
you are right ; and I will be more particular. And will you 
have another cigarette ? and then we will go out for a walk, 
and Oscar will get drier in the street than indoors.” 

“Don’t imagine I am going out to have that dog plung- 
ing about among my feet,” said Ogilvie. “ But I have some- 
thing else for you to do. You know Colonel Ross of Dun- 
torme.” 

“ I have heard of him.” 

“ His wife is an awfully nice woman, and would like to 
meet you. I fancy they think of buying some property — I 
am not sure it isn’t an island— ill your part of the country; 
and she has never been to the Highlands at all. I was to 
take you down with me to lunch with her at two, if you caie 
to go. There is her card.” 

Macleod looked at the card. 

“ How far is Prince’s Gate from here ? ” he asked 

“ A mile and a half, I should say.” 

“And it is now twenty minutes to two,” said he, rising. 
45 It will be a nice smart walk.” 

“ Thank you,” said Mr. Ogilvie ; “if it is all the sam ± to 
you, we will perform the. journey in a hansom. , 1 am not in 
training just at present for your tramps to Ben-an-Sloich.” 

“ Ah ! your boots are rather tight,” said Maclecd, with 
grave sympathy. 


! ‘ MACLEOD OE DARE. , 

They got into a hansom, and went spinning along through 
the crowd of carriages on this brilliant morning. The busy 
stieets, the handsome women, the fine buildings, the bright 
and beautiful foliage of the parks — all these were a peipetual 
wonder and delight to the new-comer, who was as eager in 
the enjoyment of this gay world of pleasure and activity as 
any girl come up for her first season. Perhaps this notion 
occurred to the astute and experienced Lieutenant Ogilvie, 
who considered it his duty to warn h..s youthful and ingenuous 
friend. 

“ Mrs. Ross is a very' handsome woman,” he remarked. 

41 Indeed.” 

*' And uncommonly fascinating, too, when she likes.” 

44 Really.” 

44 You had better look out, if she tries to fascinate you.” 

44 She is a married woman,” said Macleod. 

44 They are always the worst,” said this wise person ; “ for 
they are jealous of the younger women.” 

44 Oh, that is all nonsense,” said Macleod, bluntly'. 44 I 
am not such a greenhorn. I have read all that kind of talk 
in books and magazines : it is ridiculous. Do you think I 
will believe that married women have so little self-respect as 
to make themselves the laughing stock of men ? ” 

44 My dear fellow', they have cart-loads of self-respect. 
What I mean is, that Mrs. Ross is a bit of a lion-hunter, and 
she may take a fancy to make a lion of you-^-” 

44 That is better than to make an ass of me, as you sug- 
gested.” 

44 — And naturally she will try to attach you to her set. I 
don’t think you are quite outre enough for her ; perhaps I 
made a mistake in putting you into decent clothes. You 
wouldn’t have time to get into your kilts now' ? But you 
must be prepared to meet all sorts of queer folks at her house, 
especially if you stay on a bit and have some tea — mysterious 
poets that nobody ever heard of, and artists who won’t exhibit, 
and awful swells from the German universities, and I don’t 
know' what besides — everybody who isn’t the least like any- 
body else.” 

44 And what is your claim, then, to go there ? ” Macleod 
asked. 

44 Oh,” said the y'oung lieutenant, laughing at the home- 
thrust, 44 1 am only admitted on sufferance, as a friend of Col- 
onel Ross. She never asked me to pK my name in her auto- 
graph-book. But I have done a bit of the jackal for her once 


A 


,6 MACLEOD Of PARR 

or twice, when I happened to be on leave ; and she has sent 
me with people to her box at Covent Garden when she 
couldn’t go herself.” 

“ And how am I to propitiate her ? What am I to do ? ** 

“ She will soon let you know how you strike her. Kithei 
she will pet you, or she will snuff you out like winking. 1 
don’t know a woman who has a blanker stare, when she likes.’ 

This idle conversation was suddenly interrupted. At the 
same moment both young men experienced a sinking sei sa 
tion, as if the earth had been cut away from beneath theii 
feet ; then there was a crash, and they were violently thrown 
against each other; then they vaguely knew that the cab, 
heeling over, .was being jolted along the street by a runaway 
horse. Fortunately, the horse could not run very fast, for 
the axle-tree,- deprived of its wheel, was tearing at the road ; 
but, all the same, the occupants of the cab though they might 
as -well get out, and so they tried to force open the two small 
panels of the door in front of them. But the concussion had 
so jammed these together that, shove at them as they might, 
they would not yield. At this juncture, Macleod, who was 
not accustomed to hansom cabs, and did not at all like this 
first experience of them, determined to get out somehow ; 
and so he raised himself a bit, so as to get his back firm, 
against the back of the vehicle ; he pulled up his leg until his 
knee almost touched his mouth ; he got the heel of his boot 
firmly fixed on the top edge of the door : and then with one 
forward drive he tore the panel right away from its hinges. 
The other was of course flung open at once. Then he grasped 
the brass rail outside, steadied himself for a moment, and 
jumped clear from the cab, lighting on the pavement. 
Strange to say, Ogilvie did not follow, though Macleod, as 
he rushed along to try to get hold of the horse,. momentarily 
expected to see him jump out. His. anxiety was of short 
duration. The axle-tree caught on the curb; there was a 
sudden lurch ; and then, with a crash of glass, the cab went 
right over, throwing down the horse, and pitching the driver 
into the street. It was all the work of a few seconds ; and 
another second seemed to suffice to collect a crowd, even :n 
:his quiet part of Kensington Gore. But, after all, very little 
damage was done, except to the horse, which had cut one of 
its hocks. When young Mr. Ogilvie scrambled out and got 
on to the pavement, instead of being grateful that his life had 
been spared, he was in a towering passion — with whom oi 
what he knew not 


MACLEOD OE DARE. ^ 

H Why didn’t you jump out ?” said Macleod tc him, afte, 
seeing that the cabman was all right. 

Ogilvie did not answer ; he was looking at his besmeared 
hands and dishevelled clothes. 

“ Confound it ! ” said he ; “ what’s to be done now ? The 
house is just round the corner.” 

** Let us go in, and they will lend you a clothesbrush.” 

“ As if I had been fighting a bargee ? No, thank you. I 
ftill go along till I find some tavern, and get myself put to 
rights.” 

And this he did gloomily, Macleod accompanying him 
It "was about a quarter of an hour before he had completed 
his toilet ; and then they set out to walk back to Prince’s 
Gate.- Mr. Ogilvie was in a better humor. 

“ What a fellow you are to jump, Macleod !” said he. 
“ If you had cannoned against that policeman you would have 
killed him. And you never paid the cabman for destroying 
the lid of the door ; you prized the thing clean off its hinges. 
You must have the strength of a giant.” 

“ But where the people came from — it was that surprised 
me,” said Macleod, -who seemed to have rather enjoyed the 
adventure. “ It was like one of our sea-lochs in the High 
lands — you look all round and cannot find any guli anywhere 
but throw a biscuit into the water, and you will find then ap- 
pearing from all quarters at once. As for the door, I forgot 
that ; but I gave the man half a sovereign to console him foi 
his shaking. Was not that enough ? ” 

“ We shall be frightfully late for luncheon,” said Mr. Ogil- 
vie, with some concern. 


CHAPTER III. 

FIONAGHAL. 

And, ndeed, when they entered the house-— the balro* 
and window's were a blaze of flowers all shining in the sun— 
they found that their host and hostess had already come 
downstairs, and were seated at table with their small part) 
of guests. This circumstance did not less n Sir Keith Mac- 
leod’s trepidation ; for there is no denying th fact that the 


i8 


\! A Cl kOl* Ofi DAKf. 


young man would rather have faced an angry bulJ on High 
land road than this party of people in the hushed and semi- 
darkened and Mower-scented room. It seemed to him that 
his appearance was the signal for a confusion that was equiv- 
alent to an earthquake. Two or three servants — all more 
solemn than any clergyman — began to make new arrange- 
ments; a tall lady, benign of aspect, rose and most gracious- 
lv received him ; a tall gentleman, with a gray mustache, 
shook hands with him ; and then, as he vaguely heard young 
Ogilvie, at the other end of the room, relate the incident of 
the upsetting of the cab, he found himself seated next to this 
benign lady, and apparently in a bewildering paradise of 
beautiful lights and colors and delicious odors. Asparagus 
soup ? Yes, he would take that , but for a second or two 
this spacious and darkened room, with its stained glass and 
its sombre walls, and the table before him, with its masses 
of roses and lilies-of-the-valley, its silver, its crystal, its nec- 
tarines, and cherries, and pineapples, seemed some kind of 
enchanted place. And then the people talked in a low and 
hushed fashion, and the servants moved silently and mysteri- 
ously, and the air was languid with the scents of fruits and 
flowers. They gave him some wine in a tall green glass that 
had transparent lizards crawling up its stem ; he had never 
drunk out of a thing like that before. 

“ It was very kind of Mr. Ogilvie to get you to come ; he 
is a very good boy ; he forgets nothing,” said Mrs. Ross to 
him ; and as he became aware that she was a pleasant-looking 
lady of middle age, who regarded him with very friendly and 
truthful eyes, he vowed to himself that he would bring Mr. 
Ogilvie to task for representing this decent and respectable 
woman as a graceless and dangerous coquette. No doubt 
she was the mother of children. At her time ol life she was 
better employed in the nursery or in the kitchen than in flirt- 
ing with young men ; and could he doubt that she was a good 
house-mistress when he saw with his own eyes how spick and 
span everything was, and how accurately everything was 
served ? Even if his cousin Janet lived in the south, with all 
these fine flowers and hot-house fruits to serve her purpose, 
she could not have done better. He began to like this 
pleasant-eyed woman, though she seemed delicate, and a trifle 
languid, and in consequence he sometimes could not quite 
make out what she said. But then he noticed that the othei 
people talked in this limp fashion too : there was no precision 
about their words ; frequently they seemed to leave you tc 


f 9 


MAC u: CD CD DARE. 

guess the end of their sentences. As for the young lady 
next him, was she not very delicate also ? He had never seen 
such hands — so small, and fine, and white. And although 
she talked only to her neighbor on the other side of her, he 
could hear that her voice, low and musical as it was. was 
only a murmur. 

“ Miss White and I,” said Mrs. Ross to him — and at this 
moment the young lady turned to them — “ were talking be 
fore you came in of the beautiful country you must know sc 
well, and of its romantic stories and associations with Prince 
Charlie. Gertrude, let me introduce Sir Keith Macleod to 
you. I told Miss White you might come to us to-day ; and 
she was saying what a pity it was that Flora Macdonald was 
not a Macleod.” 

“ That was very kind“ said he, frankly, turning to this tall, 
pale girl, with the rippling hair of golden brown and the 
heavy-lidded and downcast eyes. And then he laughed. 
“ We would not like to steal the honor from a woman, even 
though she was a Macdonald, and you know the Macdonalds 
and the Macleods were not very friendly in the old time. 
But we can claim something too about the escape of Prince 
Charlie, Mrs. Ross. After Flora Macdonald had got him 
safe from Harris to Skye, she handed him over to the sons 
of Macleod of Raasay, and it was owing to them that he got 
to the mainland. You will find many people up there to 
this day who believe that if Macleod of Macleod had gone 
out in ’45, Prince Charlie would never have had to flee at 
all. But I think the Macleods had done enough for the 
Stuarts ; and it was but little thanks they ever got in return, 
so far as I could ever hear. Do you know, Mrs. Ross, my 
mother wears mourning every 3d of September, and will eat 
nothing from morning till night. It is the anniversary of 
the battle of Worcester; and then the Macleods were so 
smashed up that for a long time the other clans relieved 
them from military service.” 

“You are not much of a Jacobite ; Sir Keith,” said Mis 
Ross, smiling. 

“ Only when I hear a Jacobite song sung,” said he. 

“ Then who can fail to be a Jacobite ? ” 

He had become quite friendly with this amiable lady 
If he had been afraid that his voice, in these delicate south 
ern ears, must sound like the first guttral drone of Donald’s 
pipes at Castle Da/e, he had speedily lost that fear. The 
manly, sun-browned face and clenr-gkancing eyes were full of 


20 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 

animation ; he was oppressed no longer by the solemnity of 
the servants ; so long as he talked to her he was quite con 
fident ; he had made friends with this friendly woman. But 
he had not as yet dared to address the pale girl who sat oii 
his right, and who seemed so fragile and beautiful and dis- 
tant in manner. 

“ After all,” said he to Mrs. Ross, “ there were no more 
Highlanders killed in the cause of the Stuarts than used to 
oe killed every year or two merely out of the quarrels of the 
clans among themselves. All about where I live there is 
scarcely a rock, or a loch, or an island that has not its story. 
And I think,” added he, with a becoming modesty, “ that 
the Macleods were by far the most treacherous and savage 
and bloodthirsty of the whole lot of them.” 

And now the fair stranger beside him addressed him for 
the first time ; and as she did so, she turned her eyes to- 
wards him — clear, large eyes that rather startled one when 
the heavy lids were lifted, so full of expression were they. 

“ I suppose,” said she, with a certain demure smile, “ you 
have no wild deeds done there now ? ” 

“ Oh, we have become quite peaceable folks now,” said 
he, laughing. “Our spirit is quite broken. The wild boars 
are all away from the islands now, even from Muick ; we 
have only the sheep. And the Mackenzies, and the lilac- 
leans, and the Macleods — they are all sheep now.” 

Was it not quite obvious? How could any one associate 
with this bright-faced young man the fierce traditions of hate 
and malice and revenge, that makes the seas and islands of 
the north still more terrible in their loneliness ? Those were 
the days of strong wills and strong passions, and of an easy 
disregard of individual life when the gratification of some 
set desire was near. What had this Maclfeod to do with such 
scorching fires of hate and of love ? He was playing with a 
silver fork and half a dozen strawberries : Miss White’s sur- 
mise was perfectly natural and correct. 

The ladies went upstairs, and the men, after the claret 
had gone round, followed them. And now it seemed to this 
rude Highlander that he was only going from wonder to 
wonder. Half-way up the narrow staircase was a large recess 
dimly lit by the sunlight falling through stained glass, and 
there was a small fountain playing in the middle of this grotto 
and all around was a wilderness of ferns dripping with the 
spray, while at the entrance two stone figures held up magical 
globes on which the springing and falling water wa: reflected. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


31 


Then from this partial gloom he emerged into the drawing- 
room — a dream of rose-pink and gold, with the air sweetened 
around him by the masses of roses and tall lilies about. His 
eyes were rather bewildered at first ; the figures of the women 
seemed dark against the white lace of the windows. But as 
he went forward to his hostess, he could make out still further 
wonders of color; for in the balconies outside, in the full 
glare of the sun, were geraniums, and lobelias, and golden 
calceolarias, and red snapdragon, their bright hues faintly 
tempered by the thin curtains through which they were seen. 
He could not help expressing his admiration of these things 
that were so new to him, for it seemed to him that he had 
come into a land of perpetual summer and sunshine and glow- 
ing flowers. Then the luxuriant greenness of the foliage on 
the other side of Exhibition Road — for Mrs. Ross’s house 
faced westward — was, as he said, singularly beautiful to one 
accustomed to the windy skies of the western isles. 

“ But you have not seen our elm— our own elm,” said 
Mrs. Ross, who was arranging some azaleas that had just 
been sent her. “ We are very proud of our elm. Gertrude, 
will you take Sir Keith to see our noble elm ? ” 

He had almost foigotten who Gertrude was ; but the next 
second he recognized the low r and almost timid voice that 
sa ; d. 

“ Will you come this way, then Sir Keith ?” 

He turned, and found that it was Miss White who spoke. 
Bow' was it that this girl, who was only a girl, seemed to do 
things so easily, and gently, and naturally, without any trace 
of embarrassment or self-consciousness ? He followed her, 
and knew not Which to admire the more, the careless simpli- 
city of her manner, or the singular symmetry of her tall and 
slender figure. He had never seen any statue or any picture 
in any book to be compared with this woman, who was so fine, 
and rare, and delicate that she seemed only a beautiful tall 
flower in this garden of flowers. There was a strange simpli- 
city, too, about her dress — a plain, tight-fitting, tight-sleeved 
dress of unrelieved black, her only adornment being some 
bands of big blue beads worn loosely round the neck. The 
black figure, in this shimmer of rose-pink and gold and flowers, 
was effective enough ; but even the finest of pictures or the 
finest of statues has not the subtle attraction of a graceful 
carriage. Macleod had never seen any woman walk as this 
woman walked, in so stately and yet so simple a way. 

From Mrs, Ross’s chief drawing-room they passed into ac 


22 


MAC l HOD 01- 


antedrawing-room, which was partly a passage and partly a 
conservatory. On the window side were some rows of Cape 
heaths, on the wail side some rows of blue and white plates ; 
and it was one of the latter that was engaging the attention 
of two persons in this anteroom — Colonel Ross himself, and 
a little old gentleman in gold-rimmed spectacles. 

“ Shall I introduce you to my father ? ” said Miss White U) 
her companion ; and, after a word or two, they passed on. 

“ I think papa is invaluable to Colonel Ross,” said she ; 

‘ he is as good as an auctioneer at telling the value of chma. 
Look at this beautiful heath. Mrs. Ross is very proud of 
her heaths.” 

The small white fingers scarcely touched the beautiful 
blossoms of the plant ; but which were the more palely 
roseate and waxen ? If one were to grasp that hand — in 
some sudden moment of entreaty, in the sharp joy of recon 
ciliation, in the agony of farewell — would it not be crushed 
like a frail flower ? 

“ There is our elm,” said she, lightly. “Mrs. Ross and 
I regard it as our own, we have sketched it so often.” 

They had emerged from the conservatory into a small 
square room, which was practically a continuation of che 
drawing-room, but which was decorated in pale blue and 
silver, and filled with a lot of knick-knacks that showed it was 
doubtless Mrs. Ross’s boudoir. And out there, in the clear 
June sunshine, lay the broad greensward behind Prince’s 
Gate, with the one splendid elm spreading his broad branches 
into the blue sky, and throwing a soft shadow on the corner 
of the gardens next to the house. How sweet and still it 
was! — as still as the calm, clear light in this girl’s eyes. 
There was no passion there, and no trouble ; only the light 
of a June day, and of blue skies, and a peaceful soul. She 
rested the tips of her fingers on a small rosewood table that 
stood by the window : surely, if a spirit ever lived in any 
table, the wood of this table must have thrilled to its core. 

And had he given all this trouble to this perfect creature 
merely that he should look at a tree ? and was he to say 
some ordinary thing about an ordinary elm to tell her how 
grateful he was ? 

“It is like a dream to me,” he said, honestly enough, 
“since l came to London. You seem always to have sun- 
light and plenty of fine trees and hot-house flow T ers. But I 
suppose you have winter, like the rest of us ? ” 

“ Or we should very soon tire of all this, beautiful as it 


MAWAOO Oh DARK 


23 


is,” said she . and -he ioOKed rather wistfully out on the broad, 
«ti!l garden^ ** For my part, l should very soon lire of it. 
I should think there was 'more excitement in the wild storms 
and the dark nights of the north; there must be a strange 
fascination in the short winter days among the mountains, 
and the long winter nights by the side of the Atlantic. 0 

He looked at her and smiled. That fierce fascination 
he knew something of : how had she guessed at it ? And as 
for her talking as if she herself would gladly brave these 
onns' — was it for a foam-bell to brave a storm ? was it for 
a rose-leaf to meet the driving rains of Ben-an-Sloich ? 

“ Shall w.e go back now ? ”said she; and as she turned 
to lead the way he could not fail to remark how shapely her 
neck was, for her rich golden-brown hair was loosely gath- 
ered up behind. 

But just at this moment Mrs. Ross made her appearance. 

“ Come said she, “ we shall have a chat all to ourselves ; 
and you will tell me, Sir Keith, what you have seen since 
you came to London, and what has struck you most. And 
you unust stay with us, Gertrude. Perhaps Sir Keith will be 
so kind as to freeze your blood with another horrible story 
about the Highlanders. I am only a poor southerner, and 
had to get up my legends from books. But this wicked girl, 
Sir Keith, delights as much in stories of bloodshed as a 
schoolboy does.” 

“ You will not believe her,” said Miss White, in that low- 
toned, gravely sincere voice of hers, while a faint shell-like 
pink suffused her face. “ It was only that we were talking 
of the highlands, because we understood you were coming; 
and Mrs. Ross was trying to make out” — and here a spice 
of proud mischief came into her ordinarily calm eyes — “she 
was trying to make out that you must be a very terrible and 
dangerous person, who would probably murder us all if we 
were not civil to you 

“Well, you know. Sir Keith,” said Mrs. Ross, apologet- 
ically, “you acknowledge yourself that you Macleods were a 
very dreadful lot of people at one time. What a shame it 
was to track the poor fellow over the snow, and then deliber- 
ately to put brushwood in front of the cave, and then suffo- 
cate whole two hundred persons at once ! ” 

“Oh yes, no doubt !” said he; “but the Macdonalds 
were asked first to give up the men that had bound the Mac 
leods hand and foot and set them adrift in the boat, and they 
would not do it. And if the Macdonalds had got the Mac 


leods into a cave, they would have suffocated them too The 
Macdonalds began it.” 

“ Oh, no, no, no,” protested Mrs. Ross ; “ I can remem- 
ber better than that. What were the Macleods about on 
the island at all when they had to be sent off, tied hand and 
foot, in their boats ? ” 

“ And what is the difference between tying a man hand 
And foot and putting him out in the Atlantic, and suffoca- 
ting him in a cave ? It was only by an accident that the wind 
drifted them over to Skye.” 

“ I shall begin to fear that you have some of the old blood 
in you,” said Mrs. Ross, with a smile, “ if you try to excuse 
one of the crudest things ever heard of.” 

“ I do not excuse it at all,” said he, simply. “ It was 
very bad — very cruel. But perhaps the Macleods were not 
so much worse than others. It was mot a Macleod at all, it 
was a Gordon — -and she a woman, too — that killed the 
chief of the Mackintoshes after she had received him as a 
friend. ‘ Put your head down on the table,’ said she to the 
chief, ‘ in token of your submission to the Earl- of Huntly.’ 
And no sooner had he bowed his neck than she whipped out 
a knife and cut his head off. That was a Gordon, not a 
Macleod. And I do not think the Macleods were so much 
worse than their neighbors, after all.” 

“ Oh, how can you say that ? ’’exclaimed his persecutor. 
“ Who was ever guilty o f such an act of treachery as setting 
fire to the barn at Dunvegan ? Macdonald and his men get 
driven on to Skye by the bad weather ; they beg for shelter 
from their old enemy ; Macleod professes to be very great 
friends with them ; and Macdonald is to sleep in the castle, 
while his men have a barn prepared for them. You know 
very well, Sir Keith, that if Macdonald had remained that 
night in Dunvegan Castle he would have been murdered ; and 
if the Macleod girl had not given a word of warning to her 
sweetheart, the men in the barn would have been burned to 
death. I think if I were a Macdonald I should be proud of 
that scene — the Macdonalds marching down to their boats 
with their pipes playing, while the barn was all in a blaze 
fired by their treacherous enemies. Oh, Sir Keith, I hope 
there are no Macleods of that sort alive now.” 

“ There are not, Mrs. Ross,” said he, gravely. “They 
were all killed by the Macdonalds, I suppose.” 

1 do bel'ieve, ’ said she, “ that it was a Macleod who 


2 5 


MACLEOD US DADE, 

built a stone tower on a lonely is.and, and imprisoned his 
wife there — ” 

“ Miss White,” the young man said, modestly, “ will not 
you help me ? Am I to be made responsible for all the 3vil 
doings of my ancestors ? ” 

“J.t is really not fair, Mrs. Ross,” said she; and the 
sound of this voice pleading for him w : ent to his heart; It 
was not as the voice of Other, women. 

“ I only meant to punish you,” said Mrs. Ross, “for hav- 
ing traversed the indictment — I don’t know whether that is 
the proper phrase, or -what it means, but it sounds w r ell. 
You first acknowledge that the Macleods were by far the 
most savage of the people living up there : and then you 
tried to make out that the poor creatures whom they harried 
were as cruel as themselves.” 

“ What is cruel now was not cruel then,” he said ; “ it was 
a. way of fighting: it was what is called an ambush now' — en- 
ticing your enemy, and then taking him at a disadvatage 
And if you did not do that to him, he w'ould do it to you. 
And when a man is mad with, anger or revenge, what does 
he care for anything ? ” 

“ I thought w r e were all sheep now,” said she. 

“ Do you know the story of the man w r ho was flogged by 
Maclean of Lochbuy — that is in Mull,” said he, not heeding 
her remark. “ You do not know that old story ? ” 

They did not ; and he proceeded to tell it in a grave and 
jimple fashion which w r as sufficiently impressive. For he 
was talking to these two friends now in the most unembar- 
rassed way ; and he had, besides, the chief gift of a born nar- 
>ator — an utter forgetfulness of himself. His eyes rested 
quite naturally on their eyes as he told his tale. But first 
of all, he spoke of the exceeding loyalty of the Highland 
folk to the head of their clan. Did they know' that other 
story of how' Maclean of Duart tried to capture the young 
heir of the house of Lochbuy, and how the boy was rescut d 
and carried aw-ay by his nurse ? And when, arrived at man’s 
estate, he returned to revenge himself on those who had be- 
trayed him, among them was the husband of the nurse. The 
young chief would have spared the life of this man, for the 
old woman’s sake. “Let the tail go with the hide” said she, 
and he was slain with the rest. And then the narrator went 
on to th« story of the flogging. He told them how Maclean 
of Lochbuy w r as out after the deer one day ; and his wife, 
with her child, had come out to see the shooting. Thev 


26 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


were driving - the deer; and at a particular pass a man was 
stationed so that, should the deer come that way, he should 
turn them back. The deer came to this pass ; the man 
failed to turn them ; and the chief was mad with rage. He 
gave orders that the man’s back should be bared, and that 
he should be flogged before ail the people. 

“ Very well,” continued Macleod. “ It was done. Dut 
it is not safe to do anything like that to a Highlander, at 
least it was not safe to do anything like that to a highlander 
in those days ; for, as I told you, Mrs. Ross, we are all like 
sheep now. Then they went after the deer again ; but at 
one moment the man that had been flogged seized Macl 'ail’s 
child from the nurse, and ran with it across the mountain- 
side, till he reached a place overhanging the sea. And he 
held out the child over the sea; and it was no use that Mac- 
lean begged on his knees for forgiveness. Even the passion 
of loyalty was lost now in the fierceness of his revenge. 
This was what the man said- — that unless Maclean had his 
back bared there and then before all the people, and flogged 
as he had been flogged, then the child should be dashed in- 
to the sea below. There was nothing to be done but that — 
no prayers, no offers, no appeals from the mother, were of 
any use. And so it was that Maclean of Lochbuy was flog- 
ged there before his own people, and his enemy above look- 
ing on. And then ? When it was over, the man called aloud, 

‘ Revenged ! revenged ! ’ and sprang into the air with the 
child along with him ; and neither of them was ever seen 
again after they had sunk into the sea. It is an old story.” 

An old story, doubtless, and often told ; but its effect on 
this girl sitting beside him was strange. Her clasped hands 
trembled ; her eyes were glazed and fascinated as if by some 
spell. Mrs. Ross, noticing this extreme tension of feeling, 
and fearing it, hastily rose. 

“ Come, Gertrude,” she said, taking the girl by the hand, 
“ we shall be frightened to death by these stories. Come 
and sing us a song — a French song, all about tears, and 
fountains, and bits of ribbon — or we shall be seeing the 
ghosts of murdered Highlanders coming in here in the dav- 
tune.” 

Mafleod, not knowing what he had done, but conscious 
that something had occurred, followed then into the - draw- 
ing-room, and retired to a sofa, while Miss White sat down to 
the open piano. lie hoped he had not offended her. He 


MACLEOD OF DARE 


27 

would not frighten her again with any ghastly stories from 
the wild northern seas. 

And what was this French song that she was about to 
sing ? The pale, slender fingers were wandering over the 
keys ; and there was a sound — faint and clear and musical — 
as of the rippling of summer seas. And sometimes the 
sounds came nearer ; and now he fancied he recognized some 
oi l familiar strain ; and he thought of his cousin Janet some- 
how, and of summer days down by the blue waters of the 
Atlantic. A French song ? Surely if this air, that seemed 
to come nearer and nearer, was blown from any earthly land, 
it had come from the valleys of Lochiel and Ardgour, and 
from the still shores of Arisaig and Moidart ? Oh yes ; it 
was a very pretty French song that she had chosen to please 
Mrs. Ross with. 

“ A wee bird cam’ to our ha’ door ” — 

this was what she sang ; and though, to tell the truth, she 
had not much of a voice, it was exquisitely trained, and she 
sang with a tenderness and expression such as he, at least, 
had never heard before, — 

“ He warbled sweet and clearly ; 

An’ aye the o’ercome o’ his sang 

Was ‘ Wae’s me for Prince Charlie! ’ 

Oh, when I heard the bonnie bonnie bird * 

The tears cam’ drappin’ rarely ; 

I took my bonnet off my head, 

For well I lo’ed Prince Charlie.” 

It could not have entered into his imagination to believe that 
such pathos could exist apart from the actual sorrow of the 
world. The instrument before her seemed to speak ; and 
the low, joint cry was one of infinite grief, and longing, and 
love. 

** Quoth I, ‘ My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, 

Is that a sang ye borrow ? 

Are these some words ye’ve learnt by heart, 

Or a lilt o’ dool an’ sorrow ? 

‘ Oh, no, no, no,’ the wee bird sang ; 

‘I’ve flown sin’ mornin’ early ; 

But sic a day o’ wind an’ rain — 

Oh, wae’s me for Prince Charlie! ’” 

Mrs. Ross glanced archly at him when she discovered WhaJ 


MACLEOD OF DAME. 


*8 

sort of French song it was that Miss White had chosen ; but 
he paid no heed. His only thought was, “ If only the mother 
and Janet could hear this strange singing! ” 

When she had ended, Mrs. Ross came over to him and 
said, “ That is a great compliment to you.” 

And he answered, simply, “ I have never heard any sing 
ing like that.” 

Then young Mr. Ogilvie — whose existence, by-the way, 
he had entirely and most ungratefully forgotten — came up to 
the piano, and began to talk in a very pleasant and amusing 
fashion to Miss White. She was turning over the leaves of 
the book before her, and Macleod grew angry with this idle 
interference. Why should this lily-fingered jackanapes, 
whom a man could wind round a reel and throw out of win 
dow, disturb the rapt devotion of this beautiful Saint Cecilia t 
She struck a firmer chord ; the bystanders withdrew a 
bit ; and of a sudden it seemed to him that all the spirit of 
all the clans was ringing in the proud fervor of this fragile 
girl’s voice. Whence had she got this fierce Jacobite passion 
that thrilled him to the very finger-tips ? 

44 I’ll to Lochiel, and Appin, and kneel to them, 

Down by Lord Murray and Roy of Kildarlie : 

Brave Mackintosh, he shall fly to the field with them ; 

These are the lads I can trust wi’ my Charlie I ” 

Could any man fail to answer ? Could any man die other- 
wise than gladly if he died with such an appeal ringing in 
his ears ? Macleod did not know there was scarcely any 
more volume in this girl’s voice now than when she was sing- 
ing the plaintive wail that preceded it : it seemed to him that 
there was the strength of the tread of armies in it, and a 
challenge that could rouse a nation. 

44 Down through the Lowlands, down wi’ the Whigamore, 

Loyal true Highlanders, down wi’ them rarely ! 

Ronald and Donald, drive on wi’ the broad claymore 
Over the neck o’ the foes o’ Prince Charlie I 
Follow thee ! follow thee I wha wadna follow thee, 

King o’ the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie!” 

She shut the book, with a light laugh, and left the piano. 
She came over to where Macleod sat. When he saw that she 
meant to speak to him, he rose aird stood before her. 

“ I must ask your pardon,” said she, smiling, ‘‘for singing 
two Scotch songs, for I know the pronunciation is very diffi 
cult.” 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


*9 

He answered with no idle compliment. 

“ If Tearlach ban og, as they used to call him, were alive 
now,” said he — and indeed there was never any Stuart of 
them all, not even the Fair Young Charles himself, who 
looked more handsome than this same Macleod of Dare who 
now stood before her — “you would get him more men to 
follow him than any flag or standard he ever raised.” 

She cast her eyes down. 

Mrs. Ross’s guests began to leave. 

“Gertrude,” said she, “ will you drive with me for half 
an hour — the carriage is at the door ? And I know the gentle- 
men want to have a cigar in the shade of Kensington Gar- 
dens : they might come back and have a cup of tea with us.” 

But Miss White had some engagement ; she and her 
father left together ; and the young men followed them almost 
directly, Mrs. Ross saying that she would be most pleased to 
see Sir Keith Macleod any Tuesday or Thursday afternoon 
he happened to be passing, as she was always at home on 
these days. 

“I don’t think we can do better than take her advice 
about the cigar,” said young Ogilvie, as they crossed to Ken- 
sington Gardens. “ What do you think of her ? ” 

“Of Mrs. Ross?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Oh, I think she is a very pleasant woman.” 

“ Yes, but,” said Mr. Ogilvie, “how did she strike you? 
Do you think she is as fascinating as some men think her ? ” 

“ I don’t know what men think about her,” said Macleod. 
“ It never occurred to me to ask whether a married woman 
was fascinating or not. I thought she was a friendly woman 
— talkative, amusing, clever enough.” 

They lit their cigars in the cool shadow of the great elms : 
who does not know how beautiful Kensington Gardens are in 
June? And yet Macleod did not seem disposed to be gar- 
rulous about these new experiences of his ; he was absorbed, 
and mostly silent. 

“ That is an extraordinary fancy she has taken for Ger- 
mido White,” Mr. Ogilvie remarked. 

‘ Why extraordinary ? ” the other asked, with sudden in- 
terest. 

“ Oh, well, it is unusual, you know. But she is a nice 
girl enough, and Mrs. Ross is fond of odd folks. You didn’t 
speak to old White ? — his head is a sort of British Museum 
of antiquities ; but he is of some use to these people — he is 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


3 ° 

such a swell about old armor, and china, and such things. 
They say he wants to be sent out to dig for Dido’s funeral 
pyre at Carthage, and that he is only waiting to get the trin 
kets made at Birmingham.” 

They walked on a bit in silence. 

“ I think you made a good impression on Mrs. Ross,” 
said Ogilvie, coolly. “You’ll find her an uncommon!) useful 
woman, if she takes a fancy to you ; for she knows everybody 
-md goes everywhere, though her own house is too small to 
entertain properly. By-the-way, Macleod, I don’t think you 
could have hit on a worse fellow than I to take you about, 
for I am so little in London that I have become a rank out- 
sider. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you if you will go 
with me to-night to Lord Beauregard’s who is an old friend 
of mine. I will ask him to introduce you to some people — 
and his wife gives very good dances — arid if any royal or im- 
perial swell comes to town, you’ll be sure to run against him 
there. I forget who it is they are receiving there to-night ; 
but anyhow you’ll meet two or three of the fat duchesses 
whom Dizzy adores ; and I shouldn’t wonder if that Irish girl 
were there — the new beauty: Lady Beauregard is very clever 
at picking people up.” 

“ Will Miss White be there ? ” Macleod asked, apparently 
deeply engaged in probing the end of his cigar. 

His companion looked up in surprise. Then a new fancy 
seemed to occur to him, and he smiled very slightly. 

“ Well, no,” said he, slowly, “ I don’t think she will. In 
fact, I am almost sure she will be at the Piccadilly Theatre. 
If you like, we will give up Lady Beauregard, and after 
dinner go to the Piccadilly Theatre instead. How will that 
do?” 

“ I think that will do very well,” said Macleod. 


CHAPTER IV 

WONDER-LAND. 

A cool evening in June, the club windows open, a clear 
twilight shining over Pall Mall, and a tete-a-tete dinner at a 
small, clean, bright table — these are not the conditions io 


MACLEOD C F DA EE. 


3 « 

which a young man should show impatience. And yet the 
cunning dishes which Mr. Ogilvie, who had a certain pride 
in Ins club, though it was only one of the junior institutions, 
had placed before his friend, met with but scanty curiosity 
Macleod would rather have handed questions of cookery over 
to his cousin Janet. Nor did he pay much heed to his com- 
pa« lion’s sage advice as to the sort of club he should have 
hii lself proposed at, with a view to getting elected in a dozen 
or fifteen years. A young man is apt to let his life at forty 
shift for itself. 

“ You seem very anxious to see Miss White again,” said 
Mr. Ogilvie, with a slight smile. 

“ I wish to make all the friends I can while I am in Lon- 
don,” said Macleod. “What shall I do in this howding 
wilderness when you go back to Aldershot ? ” 

“ I don’t think Miss Gertrude White will be of much use 
to you. Colonel Ross may be. Or Lord Beauregard. But 
you cannot expect young ladies to take you about.” 

“ No ? ” said Macleod, gravely ; “ that is a great pity.” 

Mr. Ogilvie, who, with all his knowledge of the world, 
and of wines and cookery, and women, and what not, had 
sometimes an uneasy consciousness that his companion was 
laughing at him, here proposed that they should have a cigar 
before walking up to the Piccadilly Theatre ; but as it was 
now ten minutes to eight, Macleod resolutely refused. He 
begged to be considered a country person, anxious to seethe 
piece from the beginning. And so they put on their light 
top-coats over their evening dress and walked up to the 
theatre. 

A distant sound of music, an odor of escaped gas, a per- 
ilous descent of a corkscrew staircase, a drawing aside of 
heavy curtains, and then a blaze of yellow light shining 
within this circular building, on its red satin and gilt plaster, 
and on the spacious picture of a blue Italian lake, with pea- 
cocks on the wide stone terraces. The noise at first was be- 
wildering. The leader of the orchestra was sawing away at 
his violin as savagely as if he were calling on his company 
to rush up and seize a battery of guns. What was the melo- 
dy that was being banged about by the trombones, and blared 
aloud by the shrill cornets, and sawed across by the infur- 
iated violins ? “ When the heart of a man is oppressed with 

care.” The cure was never insisted on with such an angry 
vehemence. 

Recovering from the first shock of this fierce noise, Mac- 


32 MACLEOD OF DAE E. 

leod began to look around this strange place, with its magi- 
cal colors and its profusion of gilding ; but nowhere in the 
half-empty stalls or behind the lace curtains of the boxes 
could he make out the visitor of whom he was in search. 
Perhaps she was not coming, then ? Had he sacrificed the 
evening all for nothing ? As regarded the theatre or the 
piece to be played, he had not the slightest interest in either 
The building was very pretty, no doubt ; but it was only, in 
effect, a superior sort of booth ; and as for the trivial amuse- 
ment of watching a number of people strut across a stage 
and declaim — or perhaps make fools of themselves to raise a 
laugh — that was not at all to his liking. It would have been 
different had he been able to talk to the girl who had shown 
such a strange interest in the gloomy stories of the Northern 
seas ; perhaps, though he would scarcely have admitted this 
to himself, it might have been different if only he had been 
allowed to see her at some distance. But her being absent 
altogether ? The more the seats in the stalls were filled — 
reducing the chances of her coming — the more empty the 
theatre seemed to become. 

“ At least we can go along to that house you mentioned,” 
said he to his companion. 

“ Oh, don’t be disappointed yet,” said Ogilvie ; “ I know 
she will be here.” 

“ With Mrs. Ross ? ” 

“ Mrs. Ross comes very often to this theatre. It is the 
correct thing to do. It is high art. All the people are rav- 
ing about the chief actress ; artists painting her portrait ; 
poets writing sonnets about her different characters — no end 
of a fuss. And Mrs. Ross is very proud that so distinguished 
a person is her particular friend.” 

“ Do you mean the actress ? ” 

“ Yes ; and makes her the big feature of her parties at 
present ; and society is rather inclined to make a pet of her, 
too — patronizing high art, don’t you know. It’s wonderful 
what you can do in that way. If a duke wants a clown to 
make fellows laugh after a Derby dinner, he gets him to his 
house and makes him dance ; and if the papers find it out, 
it is only raising the moral status of the pantomine. Of 
course it is different with Mrs. Ross’s friend : she is all right 
socially.” 

The garrulous boy was stopped by the sudden cessation 
of the music j and then the Italian lake and the peacocks 
disappeared into unit no wn regions above ; and behold ! in 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


33 


their place a spacious hall was revealed — not the bare and 
simple hall at Castle Dare with which Macleod was familiar, 
but a grand apartment, filled with old armor, and pictures, 
and cabinets, and showing glimpses of a balcony and fair gar- 
dens beyond. There were two figures in this hall, and they 
spoke — in the high and curious falsetto of the stage. Mac- 
leod paid no more heed to them than if they had been mar- 
ionettes. For one thing, he could not follow their speech 
very well ; but, in any case, what interest could lie have in 
listening to this old lawyer explaining to the stout lady that 
the family affairs were grievously involved ? He was still in- 
tently watching the new-comers who straggled in, singly or 
in pairs, to the stalls. When a slight motion of the white 
curtains showed that some one was entering one of the boxes, 
the corner of the box was regarded with as earnest a gaze as 
ever followed the movements of a herd of red deer in the 
misty chasms of Ben-an-Sloich. What concern had he in 
the troubles of this over-dressed and stout lady, who was be- 
wailing her misfortunes and wringing her bejewelled hands ? 

Suddenly his heart seemed to stand still altogether. It 
was a light, glad laugh — the sound of a voice he knew — that 
seemed to have pierced him as with a rifle-ball ; and at the 
same moment from the green shimmer of foliage in the bal 
cony there stepped into the glare of the hall a young girl 
with life, and laughter, and a merry carelessness in her face 
and eyes. She threw her arms around her mother’s neck 
and kissed her. She bowed to the legal person. She flung 
her garden hat on to a couch, and got up on a chair to get 
fresh seed put in for her canary. It was all done so simply, 
and naturally, and gracefully that in an instant afire of life 
and reality sprang into the whole of this sham thing. The 
woman was no longer a marionette, but the anguish-stricken 
mother of this gay and heedless girl. And when the daugh- 
ter jumped down from the chair again — her canaiy on her 
finger — and when she came forward to pet, and caress, and 
remonstrate with her mother, and when the glare of the lights 
flashed on the merry eyes, and on the white teeth and laugh- 
ing lips, there was no longer any doubt possible. Macleod’s 
face was quite pale. He took the programme from Ogilvie’s 
hand, and for a minute or two stared mechanically at the 
name of Miss Gertrude White, printed on the pink-tinted 
paper. He gave it him back without a word. Ogilvie only 
smiled ; he was proud of the surprise he had planned. 

And now the fancies and recollections that came rush- 


34 


MACLEOD CF DANE. 


ing into Macleod’s head were of a sufficiently chaotic and- 
bewildering character. He tried to separate that grave, and 
gentle, and sensitive girl he had met at Prince’s Gate from 
this gay madcap, and he could not at all succeed. His 
heart laughed with the laughter of this wild creature ; he en- 
joyed the discomfiture and despair of the old lawyer as she 
stood before him twirling her garden hat by a solitary ribbon ; 
and when i he small, white fingers raised the canary to be 
kissed by the pouting lips, the action was more graceful than 
anything he had ever seen in the world. But where was the si- 
lent and serious girl who had listened with such rapt atten- 
tion to his tal6s of passion and revenge, who seemed to have 
some mysterious longing for those gloomy shores he came 
from, who had sung with such exquisite pathos “ A wee bird 
cam’ to our ha’ door ? ” Her cheek had turned white when 
she heard of the fate of the son of Maclean : surely that sen 
sitive and vivid imagination could not belong to this auda 
cious girl, with her laughing, and teasings, and demure co- 
quetry? 

Society had not been talking about the art of Mrs. Ross’s 
protegee for nothing ; and diat art soon made short work of 
Keith Macleod’s doubts. The fair stranger he had met at 
Prince’s Gate vanished into mist. Here was the real wo- 
man ; and all the trumpery buisness of the theatre, that he 
would otherwise have regarded with indifference or contempt, 
became a real and living thing, insomuch that he followed 
the fortunes of this spoiled child with a breathless interest 
and a beating heart. The spell was on him. Oh, why 
should she be so proud to this poor lover, who stood so 
meekly before her ? “ Coquette, coquette” (Macleod could 
have cried to her), “the days are not always full of sunshine; 
life is not all youth, and beauty, and high spirits ; you may 
come to repent of your pride and your cruelty.” He had no 
jealousy against the poor youth who took his leave ; he 
pitied him, but it was for her sake ; he seemed to know that 
evil days were coming, when she would long for the solace of 
an honest man’s love. And when the trouble came — as it 
speedily did — and when she stood bravely up first to meet 
her fate, and when she broke down for a time, and buried 
her face in her hands, and cried with bitter sobs, the tears 
were running down his face. Could the merciful heavens see 
such grief, and let the wicked triumph ? And why was there 
no man to succor her ? Surely some times arise in which the 
old law is the good law, and a man will trust to his own right 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


35 


arm to put things straight in the world ? To look at ter ! — 
could any man refuse ? And now she rises and goes away, 
and all the glad summer-time and the sunshine have gone, 
and the cold wind shivers thiough the trees, and it breathes 
only of farewell. Farewell, O miserable one ! the way is 
dark before you, and you are alone. Alone, and no man 
near to help. 

Macleod was awakened from his trance. The act drop 
was let down ; there was a stir throughout the theatre ; young 
Ogilvie turned to him, — 

“ Don’t you see who has come into that corner box up 
there ? ” 

If he had told that Miss White, just come up from Prince’s 
Gate, in her plain black dress and blue beads, had just ar 
rived and was seated there, he would scarcely have been sur- 
prised. As it was, he looked up and saw Colonel Ross tak 
ing his seat, while the figure of a lady was partially visible 
behind the lace curtain. 

“ I wonder how often Mrs. Ross, has seen this piece ? ’ 
Ogilvie said. “ And I think Colonel Ross is as profound a 
believer in Miss White as his wife is. Will you go up and 
see them now ? ” 

“ No,” Macleod said, absently. 

“ I shall tell them,” said the facetious boy as he rose and 
got hold of his crush hat,“ that you are meditating a leap on 
to the stage to rescue the distressed damsel.” 

And then his conscience smote him. 

“ Mind you,” said he, “ I think it is awfully good myself. 
I can’t pump up any enthusiasm for most things that people 
rave about, but I* do think this girl is uncommonly clever. 
And then she always dresses like a lady.” 

With this high commendation, Lieutenant Ogilvie left, 
and made his way upstairs to Mrs. Ross’s box. Apparently 
he was well received there, for he did not make his appear* 
nee again at the beginning of the next act, nor, indeed, un- 
til it was nearly over. 

The dream-world opens again ; and now it is a beautiful 
garden, close by the ruins of an old abbey, and fine ladies 
are walking about there. But what does he care for these 
marionettes uttering meaningless phrases? T Ivey have no 
more interest for him than the sham ruins, so long as that 
one bright, speaking, pathetic face is absent ; and the story 
they are carrying forward is for him no story at all, for he 
takes no heed of its details in his anxious watching for her 


MACLEOD OF DARE 


36 

appearance. The sides of this garden are mysteriously dt 
vided : by which avenue shall she approach ? Suddenly he 
hears the low voice — she comes nearer. Now let the world 
laugh again ! But, alas ! when she does appear, it is in the 
company of her lover, and it is only to bid him good-by. 
Why does the coward hind take her at her word ? A stick, a 
stone, a wave of the cold sea, would be more responsive to 
that deep and tremulous voice, which has now no longer any 
of the art of a wilful coquetry about it, but is altogether as 
self-revealing as the generous abandonment of her eyes. 
The poor cipher ! he is not the man to woo and win and 
carry off this noble woman, the unutterable soul surrender of 
whose look has the courage of despair in it. He bids her 
farewell. The tailor’s dummy retires. And she ? in her 
agony, is there no one to comfort her ? They have demanded 
his sacrifice in the name of duty, and she has consented : 
ought not that to be enough to comfort her? then other peo- 
ple appear from other parts of the garden, and there is a Ba- 
bel of tongues. He hears nothing ; but he follows that sad 
face, until he could imagine that he listened to the throb- 
bing of her aching heart. 

And then, as the phantasms of the stage come and go, 
and fortune plays many pranks with these puppets, the piece 
draws near to an end. And now as it appears, everything is 
reversed, and it is the poor lover who is in grievous trouble, 
wh ile she is restored to the proud position of her coquetries 
and wilful graces again, with all her friends smiling around 
her, and life lying fair before her. She meets him by acci- 
dent. Suffering gives him a certain sort of dignity; but how 
is one to retain patience with the blindness of this insuffera- 
ble ass ? Don’t you see, man — don’t you see that she is wait- 
ing to throw herself into your arms ? and you, you poor nin- 
ny, are giving yourself airs, and doing the grand heroic ! And 
then the shy coquetry comes in again. The pathetic eyes 
are full of a grave compassion, if he must really never see 
her more. The cat plays with the poor mouse, and pretends 
that really the tender thing is gone away at last. He will 
take this half of a broken sixpence back : it was given in 
happier times. If ever he should marry, he will know that 
one far away prays for his happiness. And if — if these un- 
womanly tears — And suddenly the crass idiot discovers 
that she is laughing at him, and that she has secured him 
and bound him as completely as a fly fifty times wound round 
by a spider. The crash of applause that accompan'ed the 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


37 

towering of the curtain stunned Macleod, who had not quite 
come back from dreamland. And then, amidst a confused 
roar, the curtain was drawn a bit back, and she was led — 
timidly smiling, so that her eyes seemed to take in all the 
theatre at once — across the stage by that same poor fool of a 
lover ; and she had two or three bouquets thrown her, nota- 
bly one from Mrs. Ross’s box. Then she disappeared, and 
the lights were lowered, and there was a dull shuffling of peo- 
ple getting their cloaks and hats and going away. 

“ Mrs. Ross wants to see you for a minute,” Ogilvie said. 

“ Yes,” Macleod answered, absently. 

“ And we have time yet, if you like, to get into a hansom 
and drive along to Lady Beauregard’s.” 


CHAPTER V. 

IN PARK LANE. 

They found Mrs. Ross and her husband waiting in the 
corridor above. 

“ Well, how did you like it ? ” she said. 

He could not answer offhand. He was afraid he might, 
say too much. 

“ It is like her singing,” he stammered, at length. “ I 
am not used to these things. I have never seen anything 
like that before.” 

“ We shall soon have her in a better piece,” Mrs. Ross 
said. “It is being written for her, That is very pretty, but 
slight. She is capable of greater things.” 

“ She is capable of anything,” said Macleod, simply, “ if 
she can make you believe that such nonsense is real. I 
looked at the others. What did they say or do better than 
mere pictures in a book ? But she — it is like magic.” 

“ And did Mr. Ogilvie give you my message ? ” said Mrs. 
Ross. “My husband and I are going down to see a yacht 
race on the Thames to-morrow — we did not think of it till 
this evening any more than we expected to find you here, 
We came along to try to get Miss White to go with us. Will 
you join our little party? ” 




MACLEOD OF DARE. 


“Oh, yes, certainly — thank you very much,” Macleod 
said, eagerly. 

“ Then you’d better meet us at Charing Cross, at ten 
sharp,” Colonel Ross said ; “ so don’t let Ogilvie keep you 
up too late with brandy and soda. A special will take us 
down.” 

“ Brandy and soda 1 ” Mr. Ogilvie exclaimed. “ I am 
going to take him along for a few minutes to Lady Beaure- 
gard’s — surely that is proper enough ; and I have to get down 
by the 4 cold-meat ’ train to Aldershot, so there won’t be 
much brandy and soda for me. Shall we go now, Mrs.Ross ? ” 

44 I am waiting for an answer,” Mrs. Ross said, looking 
along the corridor. 

Was it possible, then, that she Jierself should bring the 
answer to this message that had been sent her — stepping out 
of the dream-world in which she had disappeared with her 
lover ? And how would she look as .she came along this 
narrow passage ? Like the arch coquette of this land of gas- 
light and glowing colors ? or like the pale, serious, proud girl 
who was fond of sketching the elm at Prince’s Gate ? A 
strange nervousness possessed him as he thought she might 
suddenly appear. He did not listen to the talk between 
Colonel Ross and Mr. Ogilvie. He did not notice that this 
small party was obviously regarded as being in the w r ay by 
the attendants who were putting out the lights and shutting 
the doors of the boxes. Then a man came along. 

“Miss White’s compliments, ma’am, and she will be very 
pleased to meet you at Charing Cross at ten to-morrow.” 

44 And Miss White is a very brave young lady to attempt 
anything of the kind,” observed Mr. Ogilvie, confidentially, 
as they all went downstairs ; 44 for if the yachts should get 
becalmed of the Nore, or off the Mouse, I wonder how Miss 
White will get back to London in time ? ” 

“ Oh, we shall take care of that,” said Colonel Ross. 
44 Unless there is a good steady breeze we sha’n’t go at all; 
we shall spend a happy day at Rosherville, or have a look at 
the pictures at Greenwich. We sha’n’t get Miss White into 
trouble. Good-bye, Ogilvie. Good-bye, Sir Keith. Remem 
ber ten o’clock, Charing Cross.” 

They stepped into their carriage and drove off. 

44 Now,” said Macleod’s companion, “are you tired? ” 

44 Tired ? I have done nothing all day.” 

14 Shall we get into a hansom and drive along to Lady 
Beauregard’s ? ” 


AT A t 'LEOD OF DA RE. 


39 


“Certainly, if you like. I suppose they won’t throw you 
over again ? ” 

“Oh no,” said Mr. Ogilvie, as he once more adventured 
his person in a cab. “ And I can tell you it is much better 
— if you look at the thing philosophically, as poor wretches 
like you and me must — to drive to a crush in a hansom than 
in your own carriage. You don’t worry about your horses 
being kept out in the rain ; you can come away at any 
moment ; there is no fussing with servants, and rows because 
your man has got out of the rank — Hold up ! ” 

Whether it was the yell or not, the horse recovered from the 
slight stumble ; and no harm befel the two daring travellers. 

“ These vehicles give one some excitement,” Macleod 
said — or rather roared, for Piccadilly was full of carriages. 
“ A squall in Loch Scridain is nothing to them.” 

“ You’ll get used to them in time,” was the complacent 
answer. 

They dismissed the hansom at the corner of Piccadilly, 
and walked up Park Lane, so as to avoid waiting in the rank 
of carriages. Macleod accompanied his companion meekly. 
All this scene around him — the flashing lights of the broug- 
hams, the brilliant windows, the stepping across the pave- 
ment of a strangely dressed dignitary from some foreign land 
— seemed but some other part of that dream from which he 
had not quite shaken himself free. His head was still full of 
the sorrows and coquetries of that wild-spirited heroine. 
Whither had she gone by this time — away into some strange 
valley of that unknown world ? 

He was better able than Mr. Ogilvie to push his way 
through the crowd of footmen who stood in two lines across 
the pavement in front of Beauregard House, watching for the 
first appearance of their master or mistress ; but he resign- 
edly followed, and found himself in the avenue leading clear 
up to the steps. « They were not the only arrivals, late as the 
hour was. Two young girls, sisters, clad in cream-white silk 
with a gold fringe across their shoulders and sleeves, pre- 
ceded them ; and he was greatly pleased by the manner in 
which these young ladies, on meeting in the great hall an 
elderly lady who was presumably a person of some distinct- 
ion, dropped a pretty little old-fashioned courtesy as they 
shook hands with her. He admired much less the more for- 
mal obeisance which he noticed a second after. A royal per- 
sonage w r as leaving ; and as this lady, who was dressed in 
mourning, and was leaning on the arm of a gentleman w^hose 


♦O 


MACLEOD OF DARE 


coat was blazing with diamond stars, and whose breast was 
barred across with a broad blue ribbon, came along the spac- 
ious landing at the foot of the wide staircase, she graciously 
extended her hand and said a few words to such of the ladies 
standing by as she knew. That deep bending of the knee 
he considered to be less pretty than the little courtesy per- 
formed by the young ladies in cream-white silk. He intended 
to mention this matter to his cousin Janet. 

Then, as soon as the Princess had left the lane, through 
which she had passed closed up again, and the crowd be- 
came a confused mass of murmuring groups. Still meekly 
following, Macleod plunged into this throng, and presently 
found himself being introduced to Lady Beauregard — an 
amiable little woman who had been a great beauty in her 
time, and was pleasant enough to look at now. He passed 
on. 

“Who is the man with the blue ribbon and the diamond 
star ? ” he asked of Mr. Ogilvie. 

“ That is Monsieur le Marquis himself — that is your host,” 
the young gentleman replied — only Macleod could not tell 
why he was obviously trying to repress some covert merriment. 

“ Didn’t you hear ? ” Mr. Ogilvie said at length. “ Don’t 
you know what he called you ? That man will be the death 
of me — for he’s always at it. He announced you as Sir 
Thief Macleod — I will swear he did.” 

“ I should not have thought he had so much historical 
knowledge,” Macleod answered, gravely. “ He must have 
been reading up about the clans.” 

At this moment Lady Beauregard, who had been receiv- 
ing some other late visitors, came up and said she wished to 
introduce him to — he could not make out the name. He 
followed her. He was introduced to a stout elderly lady, 
who still had beautifully fine features, and a simple and calm 
air which rather impressed him. It is tfpe that at first a 
thrill of compassion went through him; for he thought that 
some accident had befallen the poor lady’s costume, and that it 
had fallen down a bit unknown to herself ; but he soon per- 
ceived that most of the other women were dressed similarly, 
some of the younger ones, indeed, having the back of their 
dress open practically to the waist. He wondered what his 
mother and Janet would say to this style. 

“ Don’t you think the Princess is looking pale ? 9 he wai 
Asked. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


4 » 

“ I thought she looked very pretty — I never saw her be* 
fore,” said he. 

What next ? That calm air was a trifle cold and distant 
He did not know who the woman was, or where she lived, or 
whether her husband had any shooting, or a yacht, or a pack 
of hounds. What was he to say ? He returned to the 
Princess. 

“ 1 only saw her as she was leaving,” said he. “ We came 
late. We were at the Piccadilly Theatre.” 

“ Oh, you saw Miss Gertrude White,” said this stout lady ; 
and he was glad to see her eyes light up with some interest. 
“ She is very clever, is she not — and so pretty and engaging 
I wish I knew some one who knew her.” 

“ I know some friends of hers,” Macleod said, rathei 
timidly. 

“ Oh, do you, really? Do you think she would give me 
a morning performance for my Fund ? ” 

This lady seemed to take it so much for granted that 
every one must have heard of her Fund that he dared not 
confess his ignorance. But it was surely Some charitable 
thing ; and how could he doubt that Miss White would im- 
mediately respond to such an appeal ? 

“ I should think that she would,” said he, with a little 
hesitation ; but at this moment some other claimant came 
forward, and he turned away to seek young Ogilvie once 
more. 

“ Oglivie,” said he, “ who is that lady in the green satin ?” 

“ The Duchess of Wexford.” 

“ Has she a Fund ? ” 

“ A what ? ” 

“ A Fund — a charitable Fund of some sort.” 

“ Oh, let me see. I think she is getting up money for a 
new training ship — turning the young ragamuffins about the 
streets into sailors, don’t you know.” 

“ Do you think Miss White would give a morning per- 
bnrance for that Fund ? ” 

Miss White! Miss White ! Miss White 1” said Lieu- 
tenant Ogilvie. “ I think Miss White has got into your 
h.ad.” 

“ But the lady asked me.” 

“Well, I should say it was exactly the thing that Miss 
Wiite would like to do — get mixed up with a whole string of 
dirhesses and marchionessses — a capital advertisement — 
anl it would be all the more distinguished if it was an am* 


42 


MACLEOD OF DARK. 


teur performance, and Miss Gertrude White the only profes 
sional admitted into the charmed circle.” 

“ You are a very shrewd bpy, Ogilvie,” Macleod observed 
“ I don’t know how you ever got so much wisdom into sc 
small a head.” 

And indeed, as Lieutenant Ogilvie was returning to A1 
dershot by what he was pleased to call the cold-meat Iran, 
he continued to play the part of menior for a time with great 
assiduity, until Macleod was fairly confused with the number 
of persons to whom he was introduced, and the remarks his 
friend made about them. What struck him most, perhaps, 
was the recurrence of old Highland or Scotch family names, 
borne by persons who were thoroughly English in their speech 
and ways. Fancy a Gordon who said “ lock ” for “ loch ; ” a 
Mackenzie who had never seen the Lewis ; a Mac Alpine 
who had never heard the proverb, “ The hills, the Mac Al- 
pines, and the devil came into the world at the same time ! ” 

It was a pretty scene : and he was young, and eager, and 
curious, and he enjoyed it. After standing about for half an 
hour or so, he got into a corner from which, in quiet, he could 
better see the brilliant picture as a whole : the bright, har- 
monious dresses ; the glimpses of beautiful eyes and bloom- 
ing complexions ; the masses of foxgloves which Lady Beau- 
regard had as the only floral decoration of the evening; the 
pale canary-colored panels and silver-fluted columns of the 
walls ; and over all the various candelabra, each bearing a 
cluster of sparkling and golden stars. But there was some- 
thing wanted. Was it the noble and silver-haired lady of 
Castle Dare whom he looked for in vain in that brilliant 
crowd that moved and murmured before him ? Or was it the 
friendly and familiar face of his cousin Janet, whose eyes he 
knew, would be filled with a constant wonder if she saw such 
diamonds, and silks and satins ? Or was it that ignis fatuus — > 
that treacherous and mocking fire — that might at any time 
glimmer in some suddenly presented face with a new sur- 
prise ? Had she deceived him altogether down at Prince’s 
Ga;e ? Was her real nature that of the wayward, bright, mis-/ 
ehievous, spoiled child whose very tenderness only prepare^ 
ner unsuspecting victim for a merciless thrust ? And yet th< 
sound of her sobbing was still in his ears. A true woman’i 
heart beat beneath that idle raillery: challenged boldlj 
would it not answer loyally and without fear? 

Pyschological puzzles were new to this son of the moun- 
tains ; and it is no wonder that, long after he had bidden gocfi 


MACLEOD OE DARE. 


43 


bye to hi 5 friend Ogilvie, and as he s.at thinking alone in his 
own room, with Oscar lying across the rug at his feet, his mind 
refused to be quieted. One picture after another presented 
itself to his imagination : the proud-souled enthusiast long- 
ing for the wild winter nights and the dark Atlantic seas ; 
the pensive maiden, shuddering to hear the fierce story 
of Maclean of Lochbuy; the spoiled child, teasing her 
mamma and petting her canary ; the wronged and weeping 
woman, her frame shaken with sobs, her hands clasped in 
despair ; the artful and demure coquette, mocking her lover 
with her sentimental farewells. Which of them all was she ? 
Which should he see in the morning ? Or would she appear 
as some still more elusive vision, retreating before him as he 
advanced ? 

Had he asked himself, he would have said that these 
speculations were but the fruit of a natural curiosity. Why 
should he not be interested in finding out the real nature of 
this girl, whose acquaintance he had just made ? It has been 
observed, however, that young gentlemen do not always be- 
tray this frantic devotion to pyschological inquiry when the 
subject of it, instead of being a fascinating maiden of twenty, 
is a homely-featured lady of fifty. 

Time passed ; another cigar was lit; the blue light out- 
side was becoming silvery ; and yet the problem remained 
unsolved. A fire of impatience and restlessness was burn- 
ing in his heart ; a din as of brazen instruments — what was 
the air the furious orchestra played ? — was in his ears ; sleep 
or rest was out of the question. 

“ Oscar ! ” he called. “ Oscar, my lad, let us go out ! ” 
When he stealthily went downstairs and opened the 
door and passed into the street, behold ! the new day was 
shining abroad — and how cold, and still, and silent it was 
after the hot glare and whirl of that bewildering night ! No 
living thing was visible. A fresh, sweet air stirred the leaves 
of the trees and bushes in St. James’s Square. There was a 
pale lemon-yellow glow in the sky, and the long, empty thor- 
oughfare of Pall Mall seemed coldly white. 

Was this a somnambulist, then, who wandered idly along 
through the silent streets, apparently seeing nothing of the 
closed doors and the shuttered windows on either hand ? A 
policeman, standing at the corner of Waterloo Place, stared 
at the apparition — at the twin apparition, for this tall young 
gentleman with the light top-coat thrown over his evening 
dress was accompanied by a beautiful collie that kept clos^ 


44 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 


to his heels. There was a solitary four-wheeled cab at the 
foot of the Haymarket ; but the man had got inside and was 
doubtless asleep. The embankment ? — with the young trees 
stirring :’n the still morning air ; and the broad bosom of the 
river catching the gathering glow of the skys. He leaned on 
the gray stone parapet, and looked out on the placid waters 
of the stream. 

Placid, indeed, they were as they went flowing quietly by 
and the young day promised to be bright enough ; and wn\ 
should there be aught but peace and goodwill upon eanh to 
ward all men and women ? Surely there was no call for any 
umrest, or fear, or foreboding ? The still and shining morn- 
ing was but emblematic of his life — if only he knew, and were 
content. And indeed he looked contented enough, as he wan- 
dered on, breathing the cool freshness of the air, and with a 
warmer light from the east now touching from time to time 
his sun-tanned face. He went up to Covent Garden — for 
mere curiousity's sake. He walked along Piccadilly, and 
thought the elms in the Green Park looked more beautiful 
than ever. When he returned to his rooms he was of opinion 
that it was scarcely worth while to go to bed ; and so he 
changed his clothes, and called for breakfast as soon as some 
one was up. In a short time — after his newspaper had been 
read — he would have to go down to Charing Cross. 

What of this morning walk ? Perhaps it was unimportant 
enough. Only, in after-times, he once or twice thought of it ; 
and very clearly indeed he could see himself standing there 
in the early light, looking out on the shining waters of the river. 
They say that when you see yourself too vividly — when you 
imagine that you yourself are standing before yourself — that 
is one of the signs of madness. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A SUMMER DAY ON THE THAMES. 

It occurred to him as he walked down to the station — 
perhaps he went early on the chance of finding her there 
alone — that he ought seriously to study the features of this 
girl's face ; for was there not a great deal of character to be 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


45 

learned, or guessed at, that way? He had but the vaguest 
notion of what she was really like. He knew that her teeth 
were pearly white when she smiled, and that the rippling 
golden-brown hair lay rather low on a calm and thoughtful 
forehead ; but he had a less distinct impression that her nose 
was perhaps the least thing retrousse ; and: as to her eyes? 
They might be blue, gray, or green, but one thing he was sure 
of, was that they could speak more than was ever uttered by 
any speech. He knew, besides, that she had an exquisite 
figure : perhaps it was the fact that her shoulders were a trifle 
squarer than is common with women that made her look 
somewhat taller than she really was. 

He would confirm or correct these vague impressions. And 
as the chances were that they would spend a whole long day 
together, he would have abundant opportunity of getting to 
know something about the character and disposition of this 
new acquaintance, so that she should no longer be to him a 
puzzling and distracting will-o’-the-wisp. What had he come 
to London for but to improve his knowledge of men and of 
women, and to see what was going on in the larger world ? 
And so this earnest student walked down to the station. 

There were a good many people about, mostly in groups 
chatting with each other ; but he recognized no one. Perhaps 
he was looking out for Colonel and Mrs. Ross ; perhaps for a 
slender figure in black, with blue beads ; at all events, he was 
gazing somewhat vacantly around when some one turned close 
by him. Then his heart stood still for a second. The sudden 
light that sprang to her face when she recognized him blinded 
him. Was it to be always so ? Was she always to come upon 
him in a flash, as it were ? What chance had the poor 
student of fulfilling his patient task when, on his approach, 
he was sure to be met by this surprise of the parted lips, and 
sudden smile, and bright look ? He was far too bewildered 
to examine the outline of her nose or the curve of the exquis- 
tely short upper lip. 

But the plain truth was that there was no entravagant joy 
at all in Miss White’s face, but a very slight and perhaps 
pleased surprise ; and she was not in the least embarrassed. 

“ Are you looking for Mrs. Ross,” said she, “ like my 
self ? ” 

“ Yes,” said he ; and then he found himself exceedingly 
anxious to say a great deal to her, without knowing where to 
begin. She had surprised him too much — as usual. She 
was so different from what he had been dreaming about. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


*6 

Here was no one of the imaginary creatures that had risen 
before his mind during the stillness of the night. Even the 
pale dreamer in black and blue beads was gone. He found 
before him (as far as he could make out) a quiet, bright-faced, 
self-possessed girl, clad in a light and cool costume of white, 
with bits of black velvet about it ; and her white gloves and 
sunshade, and the white silver chain round her slender waist, 
were important features in the picture she presented. Plow 
could this eager student of character get rid of the distress- 
ing tri /ialities ? All night long he had been dreaming of 
beautiful sentiments and conflicting emotions : now his first 
thought was that he had never seen any costume so delight- 
fully cool, and clear, and summer-like. To look at her was 
to think of a mountain spring, icy cold even in the sunshine. 

“ I always come early,” said she, in the most matter-of- 
fact way. “ I cannot bear hurry in catching a train.” 

Of course not. How could any one associate rattling 
cabs, and excited porters, and frantic mobs with this serene 
creature, who seemed to have been wafted to Charing Cross 
on a cloud ? And if he had had his will, there would have 
been no special train to disturb her repose. She would have 
embarked in a noble barge, and lain upon couches of swans- 
down, and ample awnings of silk would have sheltered her 
from the sun, while the beautiful craft floated away down the 
river, its crimson hangings here and there just touching the 
rippling waters. 

“ Ought we to take tickets ? ” 

That was what she actually said ; but what those eloquent, 
innocent eyes seemed to say was, “ Can you read what we 
have to tell you 1 Don't you know 7ohat a simple and confiding 
soul appeals to you ? — clear as the daylight in its truth. Cannot 
you look through us and see the trustmg, tender soul within l ” 

“ Perhaps we had better wait for Colonel Ross,” said he ; 
an i there was a little pronoun in this sentence that he would 
like to have repeated. It was a friendly word. It estab- 
lished a sort of secret companionship. It is the proud privi- 
lege of a man to know all about railway tickets ; but he rather 
preferred this association with her helpless innocence and ig- 
norance. 

“ I ha I no idea you were coming to-day. I rather like 
those surprise parties. Mrs. Ross never thought of going 
until last evening, she says. Oh, by the way I saw you in 
the theatre last evening.” 

He almost started. He had quite forgotten that this self 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


47 


possessed, clear-eyed, pale girl was the madcap coquette 
whose caprices and griefs had alternately fascinated and 
moved him on the previous evening. 

“ Oh, indeed,” he stammered. “It was a great pleasure 
to me — and a surprise. Lieutenant Ogilvie played a trick 
upon me. He did not tell me before we went that — that you 
were to appear.” 

She looked amused. 

“You did not know, then, when we met at Mrs. Ross’s 
that I was engaged at the Piccadilly Theatre ? ” 

“ Not in the least,” he said, earnestly, as if he wished her 
distinctly to understand that he could not have imagined 
such a thing to be possible. 

“ You should have let me send you a box. We have an- 
other piece in rehearsal. Perhaps you will come to see that.” 

Now if these few sentences, uttered by those two young 
people in the noisy railway station, be taken by themselves 
and regarded, they will be found to consist of the dullest 
commonplace. No two strangers in all that crowd could 
have addressed each other in a more indifferent fashion. 
But the trivial nothings which the mouth utters may become 
possessed of awful import when accompanied by the language 
of the eyes ; and the poor commonplace sentences may be 
taken up and translated so that they shall stand written 
across the memory in letters of flashing sunlight and the 
colors of June, “ Ought we to take tickets ?” There was 
not much poetry in the phrase but she lifted her eyes just 
then. 

And now Colonel Ross and his wife appeared, accom- 
panied by the only other friend they could get at such short 
notice to join this scratch party — a demure little old lady who 
had a very large house on Campden Hill which everybody 
coveted. They were just in time to get comfortably seated 
in the spacious saloon carriage that had been reserved for 
them. The train slowly glided out of the station, and then 
began to rattle away from the midst of London. Glimpse? 
of a keener blue began to appear. The gardens were green 
with the foliage of the early summer ; martins swept across 
the still pools, a spot uf white when they got into the shadow. 
And Miss White would have as many windows open as pos 
sible, so that the sweet June air swept right through the long 
carriage. 

And was she not a very child in ber eniovmeni pf this 
sudden escape into the country ? The rapid motion the 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


48 

silvery light, the sweet air, the glimpses of orchards, and 
farm-houses, and midstreams — all were a delight to her ; 
and although she talked in a delicate, half-reserved, shy way 
with that low voice of hers, still there was plenty of vivacity 
and gladness in her eyes. They drove from Gravesend 
station to the river-side. They passed through the crowd 
waiting to see the yachts start. They got on board the 
steamer ; and at the very instant that Macleod stepped from 
the gangway on to the deck, the military band on board, by 
some stiange coincidence, struck up “A Highland lad my 
love was born.” Mrs. Ross laughed, and wondered whether 
the band-master had recognized her husband. 

And now they turned to the river ; and there were the 
narrow and shapely cutters, with their tall spars, and their 
pennons fluttering in the sunlight. They lay in two tiers 
across the river, four in each tier, the first row consisting of 
small forty-tonners, the more stately craft behind. A brisk 
northeasterly wind was blowing, causing the bosom of the 
river to flash in ripples of light. Boats of every size and 
shape moved up and down and across the stream. The sud- 
den firing of a gun caused some movement among the red- 
capped mariners of the four yachts in front. 

“ They are standing by the main halyards,” said Colonel 
Ross to his women-folk. “ Now watch for the next signal.” 

Another gun was fired ; and all of a sudden there was a 
rattling of blocks and chains, and the four mainsails slowly 
rose, and the flapping jibs were run out. The bows drifted 
round : which would get way on her first ? But now there 
was a wild uproar of voices. The boom end of one of the 
yachts had caught one of the stays of her companion, and 
both were brought up head to wind. Cutter No. 3 took ad- 
vantage of the mishap to sail through the lee of both hei 
enemies, and got clear away, with the sunlight shining full on 
her bellying canvas. But there was no time to watch the 
further adventures of the forty-tonners. Here and closer at 
hand were the larger craft, and high up in the rigging were 
the mites of men, ready to drop into the air, clinging on to 
the halyards. The gun is fired. Down they come, swinging 
in the air ; and the moment they have reached the deck they 
are off and up the ratlines again, again to drop into the aii 
until the gaff is high hoisted, the peak swinging this way and 
that, and the gray folds of the main-sail lazily flapping in the 
wind. The steamer begins to roar. The yachts fall away 
from their moorings, and one by one the sails fill out to the 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 4 g 

fresh breeze. And now all is silence and an easy gliding 
motion, for the eight competitors have all started away, and 
the steamer is smoothly following them. 

" How beautiful they are! — like splendid swans,” Mss 
White said : she had a glass in her hand, but did not use it, 
for as yet the stately fleet was near enough. 

“ A swan has a body,” said Macleod. “ These things seem 
to me to be all wings. It is all canvas, and no hull.” 

And, indeed, when the large top-sails and big jibs came 
to be set, it certainly seemed as if there was nothing below 
to steady this vast extent of canvas. Macleod was aston- 
ished. l ie could not believe that people were so reckless as 
to go out in boats like that. 

“If they were up in our part of the world,” said he, “ a 
puff of wind from the Gribun Cliffs would send the whole 
Meet to the bottom.” 

“They know better than to try,” Colonel Ross said, 
“Those yachts are admirably suited for the Thames; and 
Thames yachting is a very nice thing. It is very close to 
London. You can take a day’s fresh air when you like, 
without going all the way to Cowes. You can get back to 
town in time to dine.” 

“ I hope so,” said Miss White, with emphasis. 

“ Oh, you need not be afraid,” her host said, laughing. 
“ They only go round the Nore ; and with this steady breeze 
they ought to be back early in the afternoon. My dear Miss 
White, we sha’n’t allow you to disappoint the British public.” 

“ So I may abandon myself to complete idleness without 
concern ? ” 

“ Most certainly.” 

And it was an enjoyable sort of idleness. The river was 
full of life and animation as they glided along ; fitful shadows 
and bursts of sunshine crossed the foliage and pasture-lands 
of the flat shores; the yellow surface of the stream was 
broken with gleams of silver; and always, when this some- 
what tame, and peaceful, and pretty landscape tended to be- 
come monotonous, they had on this side or that the spectacle 
of one of those tall and beautiful yachts rounding on a new 
tack or creeping steadily up on one of her opponents. They 
had a sweepstakes, of course, and Macleod drew the favorite. 
But then he proceeded to explain to Miss White that the 
handicapping by means of time allowances made the choice 
of a favorite a mere matter of guesswork ; that the fouling at 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


5 ° 

the start was of but little moment : and that on the whole she 
ought to exchange yachts with him. 

“ But if the chances are all equal, why should your yacht 
be better than mine ? ” said she. 

The argument was unanswerable ; hut she took the favor- 
ite for all' that, because he wished her to do so , and she 
tendered him in return the bit of folded paper with the name 
of a rival yacht on it. It had been in her purse for a minute 
or two. It was scented when she handed it to him. 

“ I should like to go to the Medditerranean in one of 
those beautiful yachts,” she said, looking away across the 
troubled waters, “ and lie and dream under the blue skies. I 
should want no other occupation than that : that would be 
real idleness, with a breath of wind now and then to temper 
the heat ; and an awning over the deck ; and a lot of books. 
Life would go by like a dream.” 

Her eyes were distant and pensive. To fold the bits of 
paper, she had taken off her gloves : he regarded the small 
white hands, with the blue veins and the pink, almond-shaped 
nails. She was right. That was the proper sort of existence 
for one so fine and pale, and perfect even to the finger-tips. 
Rose Leaf — Rose Leaf — what faint wind will carry you away 
to the south ? 

At this moment the band struck up a lively air. What 
was it ? 

“O this is no my ain lassie, 

Fair though the lassie be.” 

“ You are in great favor, to-day, Hugh,” Mrs. Ross said 
to her husband. “ You will have to ask the band-master to 
lunch with us.” 

But this sharp alterative of a well-known air had sent 
Macleod’s thoughts flying away northward, to scenes far dif- 
ferent from these flat shores, and to a sort of boating very 
different from this summer sailing. Janet, too : what was she 
thinking of — far away in Castle Dare ? Of the wild morning 
on whbh she insisted on crossing to one of the Freshnist 
islands, because of the sick child of a shepherd there ; and 
of the open herring smack, and she sitting on the ballast 
stones ; and of the fierce gale of wind and rain that hid the 
island from their sight ; and of her landing, drenched to the 
skin, and with the salt-water running from her hair and down 
her face ? 

“ Now for lunch,” said Colonel Ross ; and they went be- 
low. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


5 ’ 

The bright little saloon was decorated with flowers , the 
colored glass on the table looked pretty enough ; here was a 
pleasant break in the monotony of the day. It was an oc- 
casion, too, for assiduous helpfulness, and gentle inquiries, 
and patient attention. They forgot about the various chances 
of the yachts. They could not at once have remembered the 
name of the favorite. And there was a good deal of laughter 
and pleasant chatting, while the band overhead — heard 
through the open skylight — still played, 

“ O this is no my ain lassie, 

Kind though the lassie be.” 

And behold ! when they went up on deck again they had 
got ahead of all the yachts, and were past the forts at the 
mouth of the Medway, and were out on an open space of 
yellowish-green water that showed where the tide of the sea 
met the current of the river. And away down there in the 
south, along spur of land ran out at the horizon, and the sea 
immediately under was still and glassy, so that the neck of 
land seemed projected into the sky — a sort of gigantic razor- 
flsh suspended in the silvery' clouds. Then, to give the yachts 
time to overtake them, they steamed' over to a mighty iron- 
clad that lay at anchor there ; and as they came near her vast 
black bulk they lowered their flag, and the band played 
“ Rule, Britannia.” The salute was returned ; the officer on 
the high quarterdeck raised his cap ; they steamed on. 

In due course of time they reached the Nore lightship, 
and there they lay and drifted about until the yachts should 
come up. Long distances now separated that summer fleet ; 
but as they came along, lying well over before the brisk 
breeze, it was obvious that the spaces of time between the 
combatants would not be great. And is not this Miss White’s 
vessel, the favorite in the betting, that comes sheering through 
the water, with white foam at her bows ? Surely she is more 
than her time allowance ahead ? And on this tack will she 
get clear round the ruddy little lightship, or is there not a 
danger of her carrying off a bowsprit ? With what an ease 
and majesty she comes along, scarcely dipping to the slight 
summer waves, while they on board notice that she has put 
out her long spinnaker boom, ready to hoist a great ballooner 
as soon as she is round the lightship and lunning home be- 
fore the wind. The speed at which she cuts the water is 
now visible enough as she obscures for a second or so the 


S 2 MACLEOD OF DARE. 

hull of the lightship. In another second she has sheered 
round ; and then the great spinnaker bulges out with the 
breeze, and away she goes up the river again. Chronometers 
are in request. It is only a matter of fifty seconds that the 
nearest rival, now coming sweeping along, has to make up. 
But what is this that happens just as the enemy has got 
round the Note ? There is a cry of “ Man overboard ! ” The 
spinnaker boom has caught the careless skipper and pitched 
him clean into the plashing waters, where he floats about, not 
as yet certain, probably, what course his vessel will take. 
She at once brings her head up to wind and puts about ; but 
meanwhile a small boat from the lightship has picked up the 
unhappy skipper, and is now pulling hard to strike the course 
of the yacht on her new tack. In another minute or two he 
is on board again ; and away she goes for home. 

“ I think you have won the sweepstakes, Miss White,” 
Macleod said. “ Your enemy has lost eight minutes.” 

She was not thinking of sweepstakes. She seemed to 
have been greatly frightened by the accident. 

“It would have been so dreadful to see a man drowned 
before your eyes — in the midst of a mere holiday excursion.” 

“ Drowned ? ” he cried. “ There ? If a sailor lets him- 
self get drowned in this water, with all these boats about, he 
deserves it.” 

“ But there are many sailors who cannot swim at all.” 

“ More shame for them,” said he. 

“Why, Sir Keith,” said Mrs. Ross, laughing, “do you 
think that all people have been brought up to an amphibious 
life like yourself? I suppose in your country, what with the 
rain and the mist, you seldom know whether you are on sea 
or shore.” 

“That is quite true,” said he, gravely. “And the chil- 
dren are all born with fins. And we can hear the mermaids 
singing all day long. And when we want to go anywhere, 
we get on the back of a dolphin.” 

But he looked at Gertrude White. What would she say 
about that far land that she had shown such a deep interest 
in ? There was no raillery at all in her low voice as she spoke. 

“ I can very well understand,” she said, “ how the peo- 
ple there fancied they heard the mermaids singing — amidst 
so much mystery, and with the awfulness of the sea around 
them.” 

“ But we have had living singers,” said Macleod, “ and 
that among the Macleods, too. The most famous of all the 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


53 

song-writers M the Western Highlands was Mary Macleod, 
that was born in Harris — Mairi Nighean Alasdair ruaidh, 
they called her, that is, Mary, the daughter of Red Alister. 
Macleod of Dunvegan, he wished her not to make any more 
songs ; but she could not cease the making of songs. And 
there was another Macleod — Fionaghal, they called her, that 
is, the Fair Stranger. I do not know why they called her the 
Fair Stranger — perhaps she came to the Highlands from 
some distant place. And I think if you were going among 
the people there at this very day, they would call you the 
F'air Stranger.” 

He spoke quite naturally and thoughtlessly: his eyes met 
hers only for a second ; he did not notice the soft touch of 
pink that suffused the delicately tinted cheek. 

“ What did you say was the name of that mysterious stran- 
ger ? ” asked Mrs. Ross — “ that poetess from unknown 
lands ? ” 

“ Fionaghal,” he answered. 

She turned to her husband. 

“ Hugh,” she said, “ let me introduce you to our myster- 
ious guest. This is Fionaghal — this is the Fair Stranger 
from the islands — this is the poetess whose melodies the 
mermaids have picked up. If she only had a harp, now — 
— with seaweed hanging from it — and an oval mirror ” 

The booming of a gun told them that the last yacht had 
rounded the lightship. The band struck up a lively air, and 
presently the steamer was steaming off in the wake of the 
procession of yachts. There was now no more fear that Miss 
White should be late. The breeze had kept up well, and had 
now shifted a point to the east, so that the yachts, with their 
great ballooners, were running pretty well before the wind. 
The lazy abandonment of the day became more complete than 
ever. Careless talk and laughter ; an easy curiosity about 
the fortunes of the race ; tea in the saloon, with the making 
up of two bouquets of white roses, sweet-peas, fuchias, and 
ferns — the day passed lightly and swiftly enough. It was a 
summer day, full of pretty trifles. Macleod, surrendering to 
the fascination, began to wonder what life would be if it were 
all a show of June colors and a sound of dreamy music : for 
one thing, he could not imagine this sensitive, beautiful, pale, 
fine creature otherwise than as surrounded by an atmosphere 
of delicate attentions and pretty speeches, and sweet, low 
laughter. 

They got into their special train again at Gravesend, and 


54 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


were whirled up to London. At Charing Cross he bade 
good-bye to Miss White, who was driven off by Mr and Mrs. 
Ross along with their other guest. In the light of the clear 
June evening he walked rather absently up to his rooms. 

There was a letter lying on the table. He seized it and 
opened it with gladness. It was from his cousin Janet, and 
the mere sight of it seemed to revive him like a gust of keen 
wind from the sea. What had she to say ? About the grum 
bling of Donald, who seemed to have no more pride in his 
pipes, now the master was gone? About the anxiety of his 
mother over the reports of the keepers? About the upset- 
ting of a dog-cart on the road to Lochbuy ? He had half re- 
solved to go to the theatre again that evening — getting, if 
possible, into some corner where he might pursue his pro- 
found pyschological investigations unseen — but now he 
thought he would not go. He would spend the evening in 
writing a long letter to his cousin, telling her and the mother 
about all the beautiful, fine, gay, summer life he had seen in 
London — so different from anything they could have seen 
in Fort William, or Inverness, or even in Edinburgh. After 
dinner he sat down to this agreeable task. What had he to 
write about except brilliant rooms, and beautiful flowers, and 
costumes such as would have made Janet’s eyes wide — of all 
the delicate luxuries of life, and happy idleness, and the care- 
less enjoyment of people whose only thought was about a 
new pleasure ? He gave a minute description of all the places 
he had been to see — except the theatre. He mentioned the 
names of the people who had been kind to him ; but he said 
nothing about Gertrude White. 

Not that she was altogether absent from his thoughts. 
Sometimes his fancy fled away from the sheet of paper before 
him, and saw strange things. Was this Fionaghal the Fair 
Stranger — this maiden who had come over the seas to the 
dark shores of the isles — this king’s daughter clad in white, 
with her yellow hair down to her waist and bands of gold on 
her wrists ? And what does she sing to the lashing waves but 
songs of high courage, and triumph, and welcome to her brave 
lover coming home with plunder through the battling seas? 
Her lips areparted with her singing, but her glance is bold and 
keen : she has the spirit of a king’s daughter, let her come 
from whence she may. 

Or is Fionaghal the F.ur Stranger this poorly dressed lass 
who boils the potatoes over the rude peat fire, and croons 
her songs of suffering and of the cruel drowning in the seas. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


55 

so that from hut to hut they carry her songs, *nd th'i old 
wives’ tears start afresh to think of their brave sons lost years 
and years ago ? 

Neither Fionaghal is she — this beautiful, pale woman, with 
her sweet, modern English speech, and her delicate, sensi- 
tive ways, and her hand that might be crushed like a rose 
leaf. There is a shimmer of summer around her ; dowers 
lie in her lap; tender observances encompass and 'melter 
her. Not for her the biting winds of the northern se^s : but 
rathei the soft luxurious idleness of placid waters, aud blue 
skies, and shadowy shores . . . Rose Leaf I Rose Leaf V nhat 
faint wind will tarry you away to the south l 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE. 

Late one night a carefully dressed elderly gentleman ap- 
plied his latch-key to the door of a house in Bury Street, St. 
James’s, and was about to enter without any great circum- 
spection, when he was suddenly met by a white phantom, 
which threw him off his legs, and dashed outward into the 
street. The language that the elderly gentleman used, as he 
picked himself up, need not be repeated here. Suffice it to 
say that the white phantom was the dog Oscar, who had 
been shut in a minute before by his master, and who now, 
after one or two preliminary dashes up and down the street, 
very soon perceived the tall figure of Macleod, and made 
joyfully after him. But Oscar knew that he had acted wrong- 
ly, and was ashamed to show himself ; so he quietly slunk 
along at his master’s heels. The consequence of this was 
that the few loiterers about beheld the very unusual spectacle 
of a tall young gentleman walking down Bury Street and in- 
o King Street, dressed in full Highland costume, and fol- 
lowed by a white-and-lemon collie. No other person going 
to the Caledonian fancy-dress ball was so attended. 

Macleod made his way through the carriages, crossed the 
pavement, and entered the passage. Then he heard some 
scuffling behind, and he turned. 

“ Let alone my dog, you fellow ! ” said he, making a step 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


56 

forward, for the man had got hold of Oscar by the head, and 
was hauling him out. 

“ Is it your dog, sii ? ” said he. 

Oscar himself answered by wrestling himself free and 
taking reluge by his master’s legs, though he still looked 
guilty. 

“ Yes, he is my dog ; and a nice fix he has got me into,” 
said Macleod, standing aside to let the Empress Maria The- 
resa pass by in her resplendent costume. “ I suppose I must 
walk home with him again. Oscar, Oscar, how dare you?” 

“ If you please, sir,” said a juvenile voice behind him, 

“ if Mr. will let me, I will take the dog. I know where 

to tie him up.” 

Macleod turned. 

“ Co an so ? ” said he, looking down at the chubby-faced 
boy in the kilts, who had his pipes under his arm. “ Don’t 
yon know the Gaelic ? ” 

“ I am only learning,” said the young musician. “ Will 
I take the dog, sir ? ” 

“ March along, then, Phiobaire bhig ! ” Macleod said. 
“ He will follow me, if he will not follow you.” 

Little Piper turned aside into a large hall which had been 
transformed into a sort of waiting-room ; and here Macleod 
found himself in the presence of a considerable number of 
children, half of them girls, half of them boys, all dressed in 
tartan, and seated on the forms along the walls. The chil- 
dren, who were half asleep at this time of the night, woke up 
with sudden interest at sight of the beautiful collie ; and at 
the same moment Little Piper explained to the gentleman 
who was in charge of these young ones that the dog had to 
be tied up somewhere, and that a small adjoining room 
would answer that purpose. The proposal was most cour- 
teously entertained. Macleod, Mr. , and Little Piper 

walked along to this side room, and there Oscar was properly 
secured. 

“ And I will get him some water, sir, if he wants :<t,” said 
the boy in the kilts. 

“ Very well,” Macleod said. “ And I will give you my 
thanks for it; for that is all that a Highlander, and especially 
a piper, expects for a kindness. And I hope you will learn 
the Gaelic soon, my boy. And do you know * Cumhadh na 
Cloinne?' No, it is too difficult for you; but I think if I 
had the chanter between my fingers myself, I could let you 
hear * Cumhadh na Clonme.” 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


55 

14 1 am sure John Maclean can play it,” saM the smaK 
piper. 

“ Who is he ? ” 

The gentleman in charge of the youngsters explained 
that John Maclean was the eldest of the juvenile pipers, five 
others of whom were in attendance. 

“ I think,” said Macleod, “ that I am coming down in a 
little time to make the acquaintance of your young pipers, it 
you will let me.” 

He passed up the broad staircase and into the empty 
supper-room, from which a number of entrances showed him 
the strange scene being enacted in the larger hall. Who 
were these people who were moving to the sound of rapid 
music ? A clown in a silken dress of many colors, with bells 
to his cap and wrists, stood at one of the doors. Macleod 
became his fellow-spectator of what was going forward. A 
beautiful Tyrolienne, in a dress of black, silver, and velvet, 
with her yellow hair hanging in two plaits down her back, 
passed into the room, accompanied by Charles the First in a 
large wig and cloak ; and the next moment they were whirl- 
ing along in the waltz, coming into innumerable collisions 
with all the celebrated folk who ever lived in history. And 
who were these gentlemen in the scarlet collars and cuffs, 
who but for these adornments would have been in ordinary 
evening dress ? he made bold to ask the friendly clown, who 
was staring in a pensive manner at the rushing couples. 

“ They call it the Windsor uniform,” said the clown. “ 1 
think it mean. I sha’n’t come in a fancy dress again, if 
stitching on a red collar will do.” 

At this moment the waltz came to an end, and the people 
began to walk up and down the spacious apartment. Mac- 
leod entered the throng to look about him. And soon he 
perceived, in one of the little stands at the side of the hall, 
the noble lady who had asked him to go to this assembly, 
and forthwith he made his way through the crowd to her.. 
He was most graciously received. 

“ Shall 1 tell you a secret, Lady ? ” said he. “ You 

know the children belonging to the charity ; they are all be- 
low, and they are sitting doing nothing, and they are all very 
tired and half asleep. It is a shame to keep them there ” 

“ But the Prince hasn’t come yet ; and they must be 
marched round : they show that we are not making fools of 
ourselves for nothing.” 

A sharper person than Macleod might have got in a pretty 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


58 

compliment here : for this lady was charmingly dressed as 
Flora Macdonald ; but he merely said : — 

“ Very well ; perhaps it is necessary. But I think I can 
get them some amusement, if you will only keep the director 

of them, that is, Mr -, out of the way. Now shall I send 

him to you ? Will you talk to him ? ” 

“ What do you mean to do ? ” 

‘I want to give them a dance Why should you have 
eL the dancing up here ? ” 

“ Mind, I am not responsible. What shall I talk to him 
about ? ” 

Macleod considered for a moment. 

“ Tell him that I will take the whole of the girls and 
boys to the Crystal Palace for a day, if it is permissable ; and 
ask hjfn what it will cost, and all about the arrangements.” 

“ Seriously ? ” 

“ Yes. Why not ? They can have a fine run in the 
grounds, and six pipers to play for them. I will ask them 
now whether they will go.” 

He left and went downstairs. He had seen but few peo- 
ple in the hall above whom he knew. He was not fond of 
dancing, though he knew the elaborate variations of the reel. 
And here was a bit of practical amusement. 

“ Oh, Mr. ,” said he, with great seriousness, “ I am 

desired by Lady to say that she would like to see you 

for a moment or two. She wishes to ask you some questions 
about your young people.” 

“The Prince may come at any moment,” said Mr. 

doubtfully. 

“ He won’t be in such a hurry as all that, surely.” 

So the worthy man went upstairs ; and the moment he 
was gone Macleod shut the door. 

“ Now, you piper boys ! ” he called aloud, “ get up and 
play us a reel. We are going to have a dance. You are all 
asleep, I believe. Come, girls stand up. You that know the 
reel, you will keep to this end. Boys, come out. You that 
can dance a reel, come to this end ; the others will soon pick 
it up. Now, piper boys, have you got the steam up ? What 
can you give us, now ? 4 Monymusk ? ’ or the ‘ Marquis of 

Huntley’s Fling?’ or ‘Miss Johnston?’ Nay, stay a bit. 
Don’t you know ‘ Mrs. Macleod of Raasay ? ’ ” 

“ Yes,” “ Yes,” “ Yes,” “ Yes,” “ Yes,” “ Yes,” came from 
the six pipers, all standing in a row, with the drones ovei 
their shoulders and the chanters in their fingers. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


5V 

“ Very well, then — off you go ! Now, boys and girls, are 
you all ready ? Pipers, ‘Mrs. Macleod of Raasay ! ” 

For a second there was a confused roaring on the long 
drones ; then the shrill chanters broke clear away into 
the wild reel ; and presently the boys and girls, who were at 
first laughingly shy and embarrassed, began to make such im- 
itations of the reel figure, which they had seen often enough, 
as led to a vast amount of scrambling and jollity, if it was not 
particularly accurate. The most timid of the young ones soon 
picked up courage. Here and there one of the older boys 
gave a whoop that would have done justice to a wedding 
dance in a Highland barn. 

“ Put your lungs into it, pipers ! ” Macleod cried out, 
“ Well played, boys ! You are fit to play before a prince ? ” 

The round cheeks of the boys were red with their blow- 
ing ; they tapped their toes on the ground as proudiy as if 
every one of them was a MacCruimin ; the wild noise in this 
big, empty hall grew more furious than ever — when suddenly 
there was an awful silence. The pipers whipped the chan- 
ters from their mouths ; the children, suddenly stopping in 
their merriment, cast one awestruck glance at the door, and 
then slunk back to their seats. They had observed not only 

Mr. , but also the Prince himself. Macleod was left 

standing alone in the middle of the floor. 

“Sir Keith Macleod ? ” said his Royal Highness, with a 
smile. 

Macleod bowed low. 

“ Lady told me what you were about. 1 thought we 

could have had a peep unobserved, or we should not have 
broken in on the romp of the children.” 

“ I think your Royal Highness could make amends for 
that,” said Macleod. 

There was an inquiring glance. 

“ If your Royal Highness would ask some one to see that 
each of the children has an orange, and a tart, and a shilling, 
it would be some compensation to them for being kept up so 
late.” 

“ I think that might be done,” said the Prince, as he 
turned to leave. “ And I am glad to have made your ac- 
quaintance, although in — ” 

“ In the character of a dancing-master,” said Macleod, 
gravely. 

After having once more visited Oscar, in the company of 
Phiob.iire bhig, Macleod went up again to the brilliantly lit 


6o 


MAC l.EOD OF DARE. 

hall ; and here he found that a further number of his friends 
had arrived. Among them was young Ogilvie, in the tartan of 
the Ninety-third Highlanders ; and very smart indeed the 
boy-officer looked in his uniform. Mrs. Ross was here too 
and she was busy in assisting to get up the Highland quad- 
rille. When she asked Macleod if he would join in it, he 
answered by asking her to be his partner, as he would be 
ashamed to display his ignorance before an absolute strangei. 
Mrs. Ross most kindly undertook to pilot him through the 
not elaborate intricacies of the dance and they were for- 
tunate in having the set made up entirely of their ow 
friends. 

Then the procession of the children took place ; and the 
fantastically dressed crowd formed a lane to let the homely- 
clad lads and lasses pass along, with the six small pipers 
proudly playing a march at their head. 

He stopped the last of the children for a second. 

“ Have you got a tart, and an orange, and a shilling ? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ I have got the word of a prince for it,” he said to him- 
self, as he went out of the room ; “ and they shall not go 
home with empty pockets.” 

As he was coming up the staircase again to the ballroom 
he was preceded by two figures that were calculated to at- 
tract any one’s notice by the picturesqueness of their costume. 
The one stranger was apparently an old man, who was dress- 
ed in a Florentine costume of the fourteenth century — a cloak 
of sombre red, with a flat cap of black velvet, one long tail 
of which was thrown over the left shoulder and hung down 
behind. A silver collar hung from his neck across his 
breast : other ornament there was none. His companion, 
however, drew all eyes toward her as the two passed into the 
ball room. She was dressed in imitation of Gainsborough’s 
portrait of the Duchess of Devonshire ; and her symmetrical 
figure and well-poised head admirably suited the long trained 
costume of blue satin, with its fichu of white muslin, the bold 
coquettish hat and feathers, and the powdered puffs and curls 
that descended to her shoulders. She had a gay air with hei, 
too. She bore her head proudly. The patches on her cheek 
seemed not half so black as the blackness of her eyes, so full 
of a dark mischievous light were they ; and the redness of 
the lips — a trifle artificial, no doubt — as she smiled seemed 
to add to the glittering whiteness of her teeth. The proud, 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


Cl 

laughing, gay coquette: no wonder all eyes were for a mo- 
mem turned to her, in envy or in admiration. 

Macleod, following these two, and finding that his old 
companion, the pensive clown in cap and bells, was still at 
his post of observation at the door, remained there also fora 
minute or two, and noticed that among the first to recognize 
the tuo strangers was young Ogilvie, who with laughing sur 
prise in his face, came forward to shake hands with them. 
Then there was some further speech; the band began to play 
a gentle and melodious waltz ; the middle of the room cleared 
somewhat ; and presently her Grace of Devonshire was 
whirled away by the young Highland officer, her broad- 
brimmed hat rather overshadowing him, notwithstanding the 
pronounced colors of his plaid. Macleod could not help fol- 
lowing this couple with his eyes whithersoever they went. 
In any part of the rapidly moving crowd he could always 
make out that one figure ; and once or twice as they passed 
him it seemed to him that the brilliant beauty, with her 
powdered hair, and her flashing bright eyes, and her merry 
lips, regarded him for an instant ; and then he could have 
imagined that in a by-gone century — 

“ Sir Keith Macleod, I think ? ” 

The old gentleman with the grave and scholarly cap of 
black velvet and the long cloak of sober red held out his hand. 
The fo^ds of the velvet hanging down from the cap rather 
shadowed his face ; but all the same Macleod instantly rec- 
ognized him — fixing the recognition by means of the gold 
spectacles. 

“ Mr. White ? ” said he. 

‘ 1 am more disguised than you are,” the old gentleman 
said, with a smile. “ It is a foolish notion of my daughter’s ; 
but she would have me come.” 

His daughter ! Macleod turned in a bewildered way to 
that gay crowd under the brilliant lights. 

“ Was that Miss White ? ” said he. 

“The Duchess of Devonshire. Didn’t you recognize her ? 
I am afraid she will be very tired to-morrow ; but she would 
come.” 

He caught sight of her again — that woman, with the daik 
eves full of fire, and the dashing air, and the audacious smile ! 
He could have believed this old man to be mad. Or was he 
only the father of a witch, of an illusive ignis fatuus , of some 
mocking Ariel darting into a dozen shapes to make fools o! 
the poor simple souls of earth ? 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 


60 

No,” he stammered, “ I — I did not recognize her. I 
thought the lady who came with you had intensely dark eyes.” 

“ She is said to be very clever in making up,” her father 
said, coolly and sententiously. “ It is a part of her art that 
is not to be despised. It is quite as important as a gesture 
or a tone of voice in creating the illusion at which she aims, 
r do not know whether actresses, as a rule, are careless about 
t, or only clumsy ; but they rarely succeed in making their 
.ippearance homogeneous. A trifle too much here, a trifle 
too little there, and the illusion is spoiled. Then you see a 
painted woman — not the charactor she is presenting. Did 
you observe my daughter’s eyebrows ? ” 

“ No, sir, I did not,” said Macleod, humbly. 

“ Here she comes. Look at them.” 

But how could he look at her eyebrows, or at any trick of 
making up, when the whole face, with its new excitement of 
color, its parted lips and lambent eyes, was throwing its fas- 
cination upon him ? She came forward laughing, and yet 
with a certain shyness. He would fain have turned away. 

The Highlanders are superstitious. Did he fear being 
bewitched ? Or what was it that threw a certain coldness 
over his manner? The fact of her having danced with young 
Ogilvie ? Or the ugly reference made by her father to her 
eyebrows ? He had greatly admired this painted stranger 
when he thought she was a stranger ; he seemed less to ad- 
mire the artistic make-up of Miss Gertrude White. 

The merry Duchess, playing her part admirably, charmed 
all eyes but his ; and yet she was so kind as to devote her- 
self to her father and him, refusing invitations to dance, and 
chatting to them — with those brilliant lips smiling — about 
the various features of the gay scene before them. Macleod 
avoided looking at her face. 

“What a bonny boy your friend Mr. Ogilvie is!” said 
she, glancing across the room. 

He did not answer. 

“ But he does not look much of a soldier,” she continued. 
*' 1 don’t think I should be afraid of him if 1 were a man.” 

He answered, somewhat distantly : — 

“ It is not safe to judge that way, especially of any one 
of Highland blood. If there is fighting in his blood, he will 
fight when the proper time comes. And we have a good 
Gaelic saying — it has a great deal of meaning in it. that say- 
ing — * You do not ktiow what sword is in the seabba/d uni it it 
is drawn? ” 


MACLEOD OF PARE. 


63 

“ What did you say was the proverb ? ” she asked ; and for 
a second her eyes met his; but she immediately withdrew 
them, startled by the cold austerity of his look. 

“ ‘ You do no t blow what sword ts in the scabbard until it 
is drawn,’ ” said he, carelessly. “There is a good deal of 
m iarhig in it.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

LAUREL COTTAGE. 

A small, quaint, old-fashioned house in South Bank, Re- 
gent’s Park ; two maidens in white in the open veranda ; 
around them the abundant foliage of June, unruffled by any 
breeze ; and down at the foot of the steep garden the still 
canal, its surface mirroring the soft translucent greens of the 
trees and bushes above, and the gaudier colors of a barge 
lying moored on the northern side. The elder of the two 
girls is seated in a rocking-chair ; she appears to have been 
reading, for her right hand, hanging down, still holds a thin 
MS. book covered with coarse brown paper. The younger 
is lying . v.t her feet, with her head thrown back in her sister’s 
lap, and her face turned up to the clear June skies. There 
are some roses about this veranda, and the still air is sweet 
with them. 

“ And of all the parts you ever played in,” she says, 
“ which one did you like the best Gerty ? ” 

“ This one,” is the gentle answer. 

“ What one ? ” 

“ Being at home with you and papa, and having no bother 
a all, and nothing to think of.” 

“ I don’t believe it,” says the other, with the brutal frank- 
ness of thirteen. “You couldn’t live without the theatre. 
Gerty — and the newspapers talking about you — and people 

praising you — and bouquets ” 

“ Couldn’t I ? ” says Miss White, with a smile, as she 
gently lays her hand on her sister’s curls. 

“ No,” continues the wise young lady. “ And besides, 
th'u pretty, quiet life would not last. You would have to give 
up playing that part. Papa is getting very old now; and he 


64 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


often talks about what may happen to us. And you know, 
Gerty, that though it is very nice for sisters to say they will 
never and never leave each other, it doesn’t come off, does 
it ? There is only one thing I see for you — and that is to 
get married.” 

“Indeed!” 

It is easy to fence with a child’s prattle. She might have 
amused herself by encouraging this chatterbox to go through 
the list of their acquaintances, and pick out a goodly choice 
of suitors. She might have encouraged her to give expres- 
sion to her profound views of the chances and troubles of 
life, and the safeguards that timid maidens may seek. But 
she suddenly said, in a highly matter-of-fact manner : — 

“What you say is quite true, Carry, and I’ve thought of 
it several times. It is a very bad thing for an actress to be 
left without a father or husband, or brother, as her ostensible 
guardian. People are always glad to hear stories — and to 
make them — about actresses. You would be no good at all, 
Carry ” 

“ Very well, then,” the younger sister said, promptly, 
“ you’ve got to get married. And to a rich man, too ; who 
will buy you a theatre, and let you do what you like in it.” 

Miss Gertrude White, whatever she may have thought of 
this speech, was bound to rebuke the shockingly mercenary 
ring in it.” 

“ For shame, Carry ! Do you think people marry from 
such motives as that ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Carry ; but she had, at least, 
guessed. 

“ I should like my husband to have money, certainly,” 
Miss White said, frankly ; and here she flung the MS. book 
from her on to a neighboring chair. “ I should like to be 
able ro refuse parts that did not suit me. I should like to be 
able to take just such engagements as I chose. I should 
like to go to Paris for a whole year, and study hard ” 

“ Your husband might not wish you to remain an actress/’ 
said Miss Carry. 

“ Then he would never be my husband,” the elder sistei 
said, with decision. “ I have not worked hard for notbfhg. 
Just when I begin to think I can do something- — when I 
think I can get beyond those coquettish, drawing-room, -sim- 
pering parts that people run after now — just when the very 
name of Mrs. Siddons, or Rachael, or any of the great ac- 
tresses makes my heart jump — -when I have ambition and a 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


65 

fair chance, and all that — do you think I am to give the 
whole thing up, and sink quietly into the position of Mrs. 
Brown or Mrs. Smith, who is a very nice lady, no doubt, and 
very respectable, and lives a quiet and orderly life, with no 
greater excitement than scheming to get big people to go to 
her garden parties ? ” 

She certainly seemed very clear on that point. 

“ I don’t see that men are so ready to give up their pro 
‘eisiors when they marry, in order to devote themselves to 
domestic life, even when they have plenty of money. Why 
should all the sacrifice be on the side of the woman ? But 1 
know if I have to choose between my art and a husband, \ 
shall continue to do without a husband.” 

Miss Carry had risen, and put one arm round her sister’s 
neck, while with the other she stroked the soft brown hair 
over the smooth forehead. 

“ And it shall not be taken away from its pretty theatre, 
it sha’n’t I ” said she, pettingly ; “ and it shall not be asked 
to go away with any great ugly Bluebeard, and be shut up in 
a lonely house ” 

“ Go away, Carry,” said she, releasing herself. “ I won- 
der why you began talking such nonsense. What do you 
know about all those things ? ” 

“ Oh ! very well,” said the child, turning away with a 
pout ; and she pulled a rose and began to take its petals off, 
one by one, with her lips. “ Perhaps I don’t know. Perhaps 
I haven’t studied your manoeuvres on the stage, Miss Ger- 
trude White. Perhaps I never saw the newspapers declar- 
ing that it was all so very natural and life-like.” She flung two 
or three rose petals at her sister. “ I believe you’re the big- 
gest flirt that ever lived, Gerty. You could make any man 
you liked marry you in ten minutes.” 

“ I wish I could manage to have certain schoolgirls 
v/hipped and sent to bed.” 

At this moment there appeared at the open French win- 
dow an elderly woman of Flemish features and extraordinary 
breadth of bust. 

“ Shall I put dressing in the salad, miss ? ” she said, with 
scarcely any trace of foreign accent. 

“ Not yet, Made,” said Miss White. “I will make the 
dressing first. Bring me a large plate, and the cruet-stand, 
and a spoon and fork, and some salt.” 

Now when these things had been brought, and when Miss 
White had set about preparing this salad dressing in a highly 


66 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


Scientific manner, a strange thing occurred. Her sister 
seemed to have been attacked by a sudden fit of madness. 
She had caught up a light shawl, which she extended from 
hand to hand, as if she were dancing with some one, and then 
she proceeded to execute a slow waltz in this circumscribed 
space, humming the improvised music in a mystical and 
rhythmical manner. And what were these dark utterances 
that the inspired one gave forth, as she glanced from time to 
time at her sister and the plate ? 

“ <9//, a Highland lad my love was born — and the lot viand 
laws he held in scorn — ” 

“ Carry, don’t make a fool of yourself ! ” said the other 
flushing angrily. 

Carry flung her imaginary partner aside. 

“ There is no use making any pretence,” said she, 
sharply. “ You know quite well why you are making that 
salad dressing.” 

“ Did you never see me make salad dressing before?” 
said the other, quite as sharply. 

‘‘You know it is simply because Sir Keith Macleod is 
coming to lunch. I forgot all about it. Oh, and that’s why 
you had the clean curtains put up yesterday ? ” 

What else had this precocious brain ferreted out ? 

“ Yes, and that’s why you bought papa a new necktie,” 
continued the tormenter ; and then she added, triumphantly, 
“ But he hasn't put it on this morning , ha — Gerty l ” 

A calm and dignified silence is the best answer to the 
fiendishness of thirteen. Miss White went on with the mak- 
ing of the salad-dressing. She was considered very clever at 
it. Her father had taught her : but he never had the patience 
to carry out his own precepts. Besides, brute force is not 
wanted for the work : what you want is the self-denying as- 
siduity and the dexterous light-handedness of a woman. 

A smart young maid-servant, very trimly dressed, made 
her appearance. 

“ Sir Keith Macleod, miss,” said she. 

“ Oh, Gerty, you’re caught ! ” muttered the fiend. 

But Miss White was equal to the occasion. The small 
white fingers plied the fork without a tremor. 

“ Ask him to step this way, please,” she said. 

And then the subtle imagination ot this demon of th’rteen 
jumped to another conclusion. 

“ Oh, Gerty, you want to show him that you are a good 
honsekeeper — that you can make salad ” 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


67 

But the imp was silenced by the appearance of Macleod 
himself. He looked tall as he came through the small draw- 
ing-room. When he came .out onto the balcony the languid air 
of the place seemed to acquire a fresh and brisk vitality : he 
had a bright smile and a resonant voice. 

“ 1 have taken the liberty of bringing you a little present, 
Miss White — no, it is a large present — that reached me this 
morning/’ said he. “ I want you to see one of our Highland 
Salmon. He is a splendid fellow — twenty-six pounds four 
ounces, my landlady says. My cousin Janet sent him to 
me.” 

“ Oh, but, Sir Keith, we cannot rob you,” Miss While 
said, as she still demurely plied her fork. “ If there is any 
special virtue in a Highland salmon, it will be best appreci- 
ated by yourself, rather than by those who don’t know.” 

“ The fact is,” said he, u people are so kind to me that I 
scarcely ever am allowed to dine at my lodgings ; and you 
know the salmon should be cooked at once.” 

Miss Carry had been making a face behind his back to 
annoy her sister. She now came forward and said, with a 
charming innocence in her eyes : — 

“ I don’t think you can have it cooked for luncheon, 
Gerty, for that would look too much like bringing your tea in 
your pocket, and getting hot water for twopence. Wouldn’t 
it ? ” 

Macleod turned and regarded this new-comer with an un- 
mistakable “ Who is this ? ” — Co an so 1 ” — in his air. 

“ Oh, that is my sister Carry, Sir Keith,” said Miss White. 
“ I forgot you had not seen her.” 

“ How do you do ? ” said he, in a kindly way ; and for a 
second he put his hand on the light curls as her father might 
have done. “ I suppose you like having holidays ? ” 

From that moment she became his deadly enemy. To be 
patted on the head, as if she were a child, an infant — and 
that in the presence of the sister whom she had just been 
lecturing. 

“ Yes, thank you,” said she, with a splendid dignity, as 
she proudly walked off. She went into the small lobby lead- 
ing to the door. She called to the little maid-servant. She 
looked at a certain long bag made of matting which lay 
there, some bits of grass sticking out of one end. “Jane, 
take this thing down to the cellar at once ! The whole house 
smells of it.” 

Meanwhile Miss White had carried her salad dressing in 


63 


MACLEOD OF DALE. 


to Marie, and had gone out again to the vera da where 
Macleod was seated. He was charmed with the dreamy 
stillness and silence of the place, with the hanging foliage 
all around, and the colors in the steep gardens, and the still 
waters below. 

“ I don’t see how it is, ’ said he, “ but you seem to have 
much more open houses here than we have. Our houses in 
the North look cold, and hard, and bare. We should laugh 
if we saw a place like this up with us ; it seems to me a sort 
of a toy place out of a picture — from Switzerland or some 
such country. Here you are in the open air, with your own 
little world around you, and nobody to see you ; you might 
live all your life here, and know nothing about the storm 
crossing the Atlantic, and the wars in Europe, if only you 
gave up the newspapers.” 

“ Yes, it is very pretty and quiet,” said she, and the small 
fingers pulled to pieces one of the rose leaves that Carry had 
thrown at her. “ But you know one is never satisfied any- 
where. If I were to tell you the longing I have to see the 
very places you describe as being so desolate But per- 

haps papa will take me there some day.” 

“ I hope so,” said he ; “ but I would not call them deso- 
late. They are terrible at times, and they are lonely, and 
they make you think. But they are beautiful too, with a sort 
of splendid beauty and grandeur that goes very near making 
you miserable. ... I cannot describe it. You will see for 
yourself.” 

Here a bell rang, and at the same moment Mr. White 
made his appearance. 

“ How do you do, Sir Keith ? Luncheon is ready, my 
dear — luncheon is ready — luncheon is ready. 

He kept muttering to himself as he led the way. They 
entered a small dining-room, and here, if Macleod had evci 
heard of actresses having little time to give to domestic 
affa rs, he must have been struck by the exceeding neatness 
and brightness of everything on the table and around it 
1 he snow-white cover ; the brilliant glass and spoons ; t.lie 
carefully arranged, if tiny, bouquets ; and the precision with 
which the smart little maiden-servant, the only attendant, 
waited — all these things showed a household well managed. 
Nay, this iced claret-cup — was it not of her own composi- 
tion ? — and a pleasanter beverage he had never drank. 

But she seemed to pay little attention to these matters, 
for she kept glancmg at her father, who, as he addressee* 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 69 

Macleod from time to time, was obviously nervous and ha 
rassed about something. At last she said, — 

Papa, what is the matter with you? Has anything gone 
wrong this morning ? ” 

“Oh, my dear child,” said he, “don’t speak of it. It is 
my memory — I fear my memory is going. But we will net 
trouble our guest about it. I think you were saying, pr'r 
Keith, that you had seen the latest additions to the National 
Gallery ” 

“ But what is it, papa ? ” his daughter insisted. 

“ My dear, my dear, I know I have the lines somewhere ; 

and Lord says that the very first jug fired at the new 

pottery he is helping shall have these lines on it, and be kept 
for himself. I know I have both the Spanish original and 
the English translation somewhere ; and all the morning I 
have been hunting and hunting — for only one line. I think 
I know the other three, — 

* Old wine to drink. 

Old wrongs let sink. 

* * * * 

Old friends in need.’ 

It is the third line that has escaped me — dear, dear me ! I 
fear my brain is going.” 

“ But 1 will hunt for it, papa,” said she ; “ I will get the 
lines for you. Don’t you trouble.” 

“ No, no, no, child,” said he, with somewhat of a pomp- 
ous air. “You have this new character to study. You must 
not allow any trouble to disturb the serenity of your mind 
while you are so engaged. You must give your heart and 
soul to it, Gerty ; you must forget yourself ; you must aban- 
don yourself to it, and let it grow up in your mind until the 
conception is so perfect that there are no traces of the man- 
ner of its production left.” 

He certainly was addressing his daughter, but somehow 
the formal phrases suggested that he was speaking for the 
benefit of the stranger. The prim old gentleman continued ; 
“ That is the only way. Art demands absolute self-for- 
getfulness. You must give yourself to it in complete surren- 
der. People may not know the difference ; but the true 
artist seeks only to be true to himself. You produce the per- 
fect flower ; they are not to know of the anxious care — of the 
agony of tears, perhaps you have spent on it. But then youi 


7 ° 


MACLEOD OE DARE. 


whole mind must be given to it; there must be no distract 
ing cares ; l will look for the missing lines myself.” 

“ I am quite sure, papa,” said Miss Carry, spitefully, ’’that 
she was far more anxious about these cutlets than about her 
new part this morning. She was half a dozen times to the 
kitchen. I didn’t see her reading the book much.” 

“ The res angiistce dotni ’,” said the father, sententiously, 
“ sometimes interfere, where people are not too well off, 
But that is necessary. What is not necessary is that Gerty 
should take my troubles over to herself, and disturb her foi 
mation of this new character, which ought to be growing up 
in her mind almost insensibly, until she herself will scarcely 
be aw r are how real it is. When she steps on to the stage she 
ought to be no more Gertrude White than you or I. The art- 
ist loses himself. He transfers his soul to his creation 
His heart beats in another breast ; he sees with other eyes 
You will excuse me, Sir Keith, but I keep insisting on this 
point to my daughter. If she ever becomes a great artist, 
that will be the secret of her success. And she ought never 
to cease from cultivating the habit. She ought to be ready 
at any moment to project herself, as it were, into any char- 
acter. She ought to practise so as to make of her own emo- 
tions an instrument that she can use at will. It is a great 
demand that art makes on the life of an artist. In fact, he 
ceases to live for himself. He becomes merely a medium. 
His most secret experiences are the property of the world at 
large, once they have been transfused and moulded by his 
personal skill.” 

And so he continued talking, apparently for the instruc- 
tion of his daughter, but also giving his guest clearly to un- 
derstand that Miss Gertrude White was not as other women 
but rather as one set apart for the high and inexorable sacri- 
fice demanded by art At the end of his lecture he abruptly 
asked Macleod if he had followed him. Yes, he had fol- 
lowed him, but in rather a bewildered way. Or had he some 
confused sense of self-reproach, in that he had distracted 
the contemplation of this pale and beautiful artist, and sen* 
her downstairs to look after cutlets ? 

“ It seems a little hard, sir,” said Macleod to the old man, 
“ that an artist is not to have any life of his or her own at all 
that he or she should become merely a — a — a sort of ten-min 
utes’ emotionalist.” 

It was not a bad phrase for a rude Highlander to have in- 
vented on the spur of the moment. But the fact was tha« 


MACLEOD Ob DALE. 


7 - 


some little personal feeling stung him into the speech. He 
was prepared to resent this tyrany of art. And if he now 
were to see some beautiful pale slave 'bound in these iron 
chains, and being exhibited for the amusement of an idle 
world, what would the fierce blood o: the Macleods say to 
that debasement? He began to dislike this old man, with 
his cruel theories and his oracular speech. But he forbore 
to have further or any argument with him ; for he remem 
bered what the Highlanders call “ the advice of the bell ol v 
Scoon ” — “ 1 he thing that concerns you not meddle not with 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE PRINCESS RIGHINN. 

The people who lived in this land of summer, and sun 
shine, and flowers — had they no cares at all ? He went out 
into the garden with these two girls ; and they were like two 
young fawns in their careless play. Miss Carry, indeed, seemed 
bent on tantalizing him by the manner m which she petted 
and teased and caressed her sister— scolding her, quarrelling 
with her, and kissing her all at once. The grave, gentle, 
forbearing manner in which the elder sister bore all this was 
beautiful to see. And then her sudden concern and pity 
when the wild Miss Carry had succeeded in scratching her 
finger with the thorn of a rose-bush ! It was the tiniest of 
scratches : and all the blood that appeared was about the 
size of a pin-head. But Miss White must needs tear up her 
dainty little pocket-handerchief, and bind that grievous 
wound, and condole with the poor victim as though she were 
suffering umold agonies. It was a pretty sort of idleness. 
It seemed to harmonize with this still, beautiful summer day, 
and the soft green foliage around, and the still air that was 
sweet with the scent of the flowers of the lime-trees. They 
say that the Gaelic word for the lower regions ifrin, is derived 
from i-okuirn , the island of incessant rain. To a Highlander, 
therefore must not this land of perpetual summer and sun- 
shine have seemed to be heaven itself? 

And even the malicious Carry relented for a moment. 

u You said you were going to the Zoological Gardens/ 
she said. 


MA CLE OD OF DA KR. 


I 2 

“Yes,” he answered, “I am. 1 have seen everything I 
want to see in London but that,’’ 

“ Because Gerty and I might walk across the Park with 
you, and show you the way.” 

“ I very much wish you would,” said he, “ if you have 
nothing better to do.” 

“ I will see if papa does not want me,” said Miss White, 
calmly. She might just as well be walking in Regent's Paik. 
is in this small garden. 

Presently the three of them set out. 

“ I am glad of any excuse,” she said, with a smile, “ for 
throwing aside that new part. It seems to me insufferably 
stupid. It is very hard that you should be expected to make 
a character look natural when the words you have to speak 
are such as no human being would use in any circumstance 
whatever.” 

Oddly enough, he never heard her make even the slight- 
est reference to her profession without experiencing a sharp 
twinge of annoyance. He did not stay to ask himself why 
this should be so. Ordinarily he simply made haste to change 
the subject. 

“ Then why should you take the part at all ? ” said he, 
bluntly. 

“ Once you have given yourself up to a particular calling- 
you must accept its little annoyances,” she said, frankly. “ I 
cannot have everything my own way. I have been very for- 
tunate in other respects. I never had to go through the 
drudgery of the provinces, though they say that is the best 
school possible for an actress. And I am sure the money 
I and the care papa has spent on my training — you see, he had 
no son to send to college. I think he is far more anxious 
about my succeeding than I am myself.” 

“ But you have succeeded,” said Macleod. It was, in- 
deed, the least he could say, with all his dislike of the sub- 
ject. 

“ Oh, I do not call that success,” said she, simply 
“That is merely pleasing people by showing them little 
scenes from their own drawing-rooms transferred to the stage. 
They like it because it is pretty and familiar. And people 
pretend to be very cynical at present — they like things with 
‘ no nonsense about them ; ’ and I suppose this sort of com- 
edy is the natural reaction from the rant of the melodrama. 
Still, if you happen to be ambitious — or perhaps it is mer* 
vanity ? — if you would like to try what is in you- * 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


53 

“ Gerty wants to be a Mrs. Sicldons : that's it,” said Miss 
Carry, promptly. 

Talking to an actress about her profession, and not having 
a word of compliment to say ? Instead, he praised the noble 
elms and chestnuts of the Park, the broad white lake, the 
flowers, the avenues. He was greatly interested by the whiz- 
zing by overhead of a brace of duck. 

“ I suppose you are very fond of animals?” Miss Whitt 
said. 

“ I am indeed,” said he, suddenly brightening up. “ And 
up at our place I give them all a chance. I don’t allow a 
single weasel or hawk to be killed, though I have a great deal 
of trouble about it. But what is the result ? I don’t know 
whether there is such a thing as the balance of nature, or 
whether it is merely that the hawks and weasels and other 
vermin kill off the sickly birds : but I do know that we have 
less disease among our birds than I hear of anywhere else. 
I have sometimes shot a weasel, it is true, when I have run 
across him as he was hunting a rabbit — you cannot help 
doing that if you hear the rabbit squealing with fright long 
before the weasel is at him — but it is against my rule. I give 
them all a fair field and no favor. But there are two animals 
I put out of the list ; I thought there was only one till this 
week — now there are two ; and one of them I hate, the other 
I fear.” 

“ Fear ? ” she said : the slight flash of surprise in her eyes 
was eloquent enough. But he did not notice it. 

“ Yes,” said he, rather gloomily. “ I suppose it is super- 
stition, or you may have it in your blood ; but the horror I 
have of the eyes of a snake — I cannot tell you of it. Perhaps 
1 was frightened when I was a child — I cannot remember ; 
or perhaps it was the stoiiesof the old women. The serpent 
is very mysterious to the people in the Highlands: they have 
stories of watersnakes in the lochs : and if you get a nest of 
seven adders wdth one white one, you boil the white one, and 
the man who drinks the broth knows all things in heaven and 
earth. In the Lewis they call the serpent righinn, that is, 
‘ a princess ; ’ and they say that the serpent is a princess be- 
witched. But that is fiom fear — it is a compliment ” 

“ But surely there are no serpents to be afraid of in the 
Highlands?” said Miss White. She was looking rather cu- 
riously at him. 

“ No,” said he, in the same gloomy way. “ The adders 
run away from you if you are walking through the heather. 


74 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


If you tread on one, and he bites your boot, what then ? He 
cannot hurt you. But suppose you are out after the deer, 
and you are crawling along the heather with your face to the 
ground, and all at once you see the two small eyes of ar 
adder looking at you and close to you ” 

He shuddered slightly — perhaps it was only an express 
ion of disgust. 

“ I have heard,” he continued, “ that in parts of Islay they 
used to be so bad that the farmers would set fire to the 
heather in a circle, and as the heather burned in and in you 
could see the snakes and adders twisting and curling in a 
great ball. We have not many with us. But one day John 
Begg, that is the schoolmaster, went behind a rock to get a 
light for his pipe ; and he put his head close to the rock to 
be out of the wind ; and then he thought he stirred something 
with his cap ; and the next moment the adder fell on to his 
shoulder, and bit him in the neck. He was half mad with 
the fright ; but I think the adder must have bitten the cap 
first and expended its poison ; for the schoolmaster was only 
ill for about two days, and then there was no more of it. 
But just think of it — an adder getting to your neck ” 

“ I would rather not think of it,” she said, quickly. 
“ What is the other animal — that you hate ? ” 

“ Oh ! ” he said, lightly, “ that is a very different affair — 
that is a parrot that speaks. I was never shut up in the 
house with one till this week. My landlady’s son brought 
her home one from the West Indies ; and she put the cage in 
a window recess on my landing. At first it was a little amus- 
ing ; but the constant yelp — it was too much for me. i Pritty 
poal / pritty poal /’ I did not mind so much; but when the 
ugly brute, with its beady eyes and its black snout, used to 
yelp, ‘ Come and kiz me ! cotne and kiz me P I grew to hate it. 
And in the morning, too, how was one to sleep ? I used to 
open my door and fling a boot at it ; but that only served for 
a time. It began again.” 

“ But you speak of it as having been there. What became 
of it?” 

He glanced at her rather nervously — like a schoolboy — 
and laughed. 

“ Shall I tell you ? ” he said, rather shamefacedly. “ The 
murder will be out sooner or later. It was this morning. I 
could stand it no longer. I had thrown both my boots at il ; 
it was no use. I got up a third time, and went out. The 
window, that looks into a back yard, was open. Then J 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


75 

opened the parrot’s cage. But the fool of an animal d'd nc t 
know what I meant— or it was afraid — and so I caught him 
by the back of the neck and flung him out. I don’t know 
anything more about him.” 

“ Could he fly ? ” said the big-eyed Carry, who had been 
quite interested in this tragic tale 

“ I don’t know,” Macleod said, modestly. “ There was 
no use asking him. All he could say was, ‘ Come and kh 
toe; ’ and I got tired of that.” 

“ Then you have murdered him ! ” said the elder sister in 
an awestricken voice ; and she pretended to withdraw a bit 
from him. “ I don’t believe in the Macleods having become 
civilized, peaceable people. I believe they would have no 
hesitation in murdering any one that was in their way.” 

“ Oh, Miss White,” said he, in pro-test, “ you must forget 
what I told you about the Macleods ; and you must really 
believe they were no worse than the others of the same time. 
Now I was thinking of another story the other day, which I 
must tell you ” 

“ Oh, pray, don’t,” she said, “ if it is one of those terrible 
legends ” 

“ But I must tell you,” said he, “ because it is about the 
Macdonalds ; and I want to show you that we had not all the 
badness of those times. It was Donald Gorm Mor ; and his 
nephew Hugh Macdonald, who was the heir to the chief- 
tainship, he got a number of men to join him in a conspiracy 
to have his uncle murdered. The chief found it out, and for- 
gave him. That was notlike a Macleod,” he admitted, “fori 
never heard of a Macleod of those days forgiving anybody. 
But again Hugh Macdonald engaged in a conspiracy ; and 
then Donald Gorm Mor thought he would put an end to the 
nansense. What did he do? He put his nephew into a deep 
and foul dungeon — so the story says — and left him without 
food or water for a whole day. Then there was salt beef 
lowered into the dungeon ; and Macdonald he devourrd the 
salt beef; for he was starving with hunger. Then tlvy left 
him alone. But you can imagine the thirst of a man who has 
been eating salt beef, and who has had no water for a day or 
two. He was mad with thirst. Then they lowered a cup into 
the dungeon — you may imagine the eagerness with which t he 
poor fellow saw it coming down to him — and how he caught 
it with both his hands. But it was empty / And so, having 
made a fool of him in that way, they left him to die of thirst, 
That was the Macdonalds, Miss White, not the Macleods.” 


7 6 MACLEOD OF DARE 

“Then I am glad of Culloden,” said she, with decision, 
44 for destroying such a race of fiends.” . 

44 Oh, you must not say that,” he protested, laughing, 
44 We should have become quiet and respectable folks without 
Culloden. Even without Culloden we should have had penny 
newspapers all the same ; and tourist boats from Oban to 
Iona. Indeed, you won’t find quieter folks anywhere lhar 
the Macdonalds and Macleods are now.” 

44 1 don’t know how far you are to be trusted,” said si e 
pretending to look at him with some doubts. 

Now they reached the gate of the gardens. 

44 Do let us go in, Gerty,” said Miss Carry. 44 You know 
you always get hints for your dresses from the birds— -you 
would never have thought of that flamingo pink and white if 
you had not been walking through here ” 

44 1 will go in for a while if you like, Carry,” said she ; 
and certainly Macleod was nothing loath. 

There were but few people in the Gardens on this after- 
noon, for all the world was up at the Eton and Harrow 
cricket-match at Lord’s, and there was little visible of ’Arry 
and his pipe. Macleod began to show more than a school 
boy’s delight over the wonders of this strange place. That 
he was exceedingly fond of animals — always barring the two 
he had mentioned — was soon abundantly shown. He talked 
to them as though the mute inquiring eyes could understand 
him thoroughly. When he came to animals with which he 
was familiar in the North, he seemed to be renewing acquain- 
tance with old friends — like himself, they were strangers in 
a strange land. 

44 Ah,” said he to the splendid red deer, which was walk- 
ing about the paddock with his velvety horns held proudly in 
the air, 44 what part of the Highlands have you come from ? 
And wouldn’t you like now a canter down the dry bed of a 
stream on the side of Ben-an-Sloieh ? ” 

The hind, with slow and gentle step, and with her nut 
brown hide shining in the sun, came up to the bars, and re 
garded him with those large, clear, gray-green eyes — so dif- 
ferent from the soft dark eyes of the roe — that had long eye- 
lashes on the upper lid. He rubbed her nose. 

44 And wouldn’t you rather be up on the heather, munch- 
ing the young grass and drinking out of the burn ? ” 

They went along to the great cage of the sea-eagles. 
The birds seemed to pay no heed to what was passing im- 
mediately around them. Ever and anon they jerked theif 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


77 


heads into an attitude of attention, and the golden _r<*wn eye 
with its contracted pupil and stern upper lid, seemed to be 
throwing a keen glance over the immeasurable leagues of 
sea. 

“ Poor old chap ! ” he said to one perched high on an old 
slump, “wouldn’t you like to have one sniff of a sea-breeze, 
> ir.d a look round for a sea-pyot or two ? What do they give 
you here — dead fish, I suppose ? ” 

The eagle raised its great wings and slowly flapped them 
once or twice, while it uttered a succession of shrill yawps. 

“ Oh yes,” he said, “ you could make yourself heard above 
the sound of the waves. And I think if any of the boys were 
after your eggs or your young ones, you could make short 
work of them with those big wings. Or would you like to 
have a battle-royal with a seal, and try whether you could 
pilot the seal in to the shore, or whether the seal would drag 
you and your fixed claws down to the bottom and drown 
you ? ” 

There was a solitary kittiwake in a cage devoted to sea- 
birds, nearly all of which were foreigners. 

“ You poor little kittiwake,” said he, “ this is a sad place 
for you to be in. 1 think you would rather be out at Ru- 
Treshanish, even if it was blowing hard, and there was rain 
about. There was a dead whale came ashore there about a 
month ago ; that would have been something like a feast for 
you.” 

“ Why,” said he, to his human companion, “ if I had only 
known before ! Whenever there was an hour or two with 
nothing to do, here was plenty of occupation. But I must 
not keep you too long, Miss White. I could remain here 
days and weeks.” 

“ You will not go without looking in at the serpents,” 
said she, with a slight smile. 

He hesitated for a second. 

‘ No,” said he ; I think I will not go in to see them.” 

“ But you must,” said she, cruelly. “ You will see they 
are not such terrible creatures when they are shut up in glass 
boxes.” 

He suffered himself to be led along to the reptile house ; 
but he was silent. He entered the last of the three. He 
stood in the middle of the room, and looked around him in 
rather a strange way. 

“ Now, come and look at this splendid fellow,” said Miss 
White, who, with her sister, was leaning over the rail “ Look 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


78 

at his sDlendid bars of color ! do you see the Ivautiful blue 
sheen on its scales ? ” 

It was a huge anaconda, its body as thick as a man’s leg. 
lying coiled up in a circle ; its flat, ugly head reposing in the 
middle. He came a bit nearer. “ Hideous ! ” was all he 
said. And then his eyes was fixed on the eyes of the animal 
— the lidless eyes, with their perpetual glassy stare. He had 
th aught at first they were closed ; but now he saw that that 
opaque yellow substance was covered by a glassy coating, 
while in the centre there was a small slit as if cut by a pen- 
knife. The great coils slowly expanded and fell again as the 
animal breathed ; otherwise the fixed stare of those yellow 
eyes might have been taken for the stare of death. 

“ I don’t think the anaconda is poisonous at all,” said 
she, lightly. 

“ But if you were to meet that beast in a jungle,” said he, 
“ what difference would that make ! ” 

He spoke reproachfully, as if she were luring him into 
some secret place to have him slain with poisonous fangs. 
He passed on from that case to the others unwillingly. The 
room was still. Most of the snakes would have seemed dead 
but for the malign stare of the beaded eyes. He seemed 
anxious to get out ; the atmosphere of the place was hot and 
oppressive. 

But just at the door there was a case some quick motion 
111 which caught his eye, and despite himself he stopped to 
look. The inside of this glass box was alive with snakes — 
raising their heads in the air, slimily crawling over each 
other, the small black forked tongues shooting in and out, 
the black points of eyes glassily staring. And the object 
that had moved quickly was a wretched little yellow frog, 
that was not motionless in a dish of water, its eyes apparently 
starting out of its head with horror. A snake made its ap- 
pearance over the edge of the dish. The shooting black 
tongue approached the heac of the frog ; and then the long, 
sinuous body glided along the edge of the dish again, the 
frog meanwhile being too paralyzed with fear to move. A 
second afterward the frog, apparently recovering, sprung clean 
out of the basin ; but it was only to alight on the backs of 
two or three of the reptiles lying coiled up together. It made 
another spring, and got into a corner among some grass, But 
along that side of the case another of those small, flat, yellow 
marked heads was slowly creeping along, propelled by the 
squirming body ; and again the frog made a sudden spring, 


MACLFOD OF PAR. 


79 


this time leaping once more into the shallow water, where, it 
stood and panted, with its eyes dilated. And now a snake 
that had crawled up the side of the case put out its long neck 
as if to see whither it should proceed. There was nothing to 
lay hold of. The head swayed and twisted, the forked tongue 
shooting out; and at last the snake felJ away from its hold, 
and splashed right into the basin of water on the top of the 
frof . There was a wild shooting this way and that — but 
Macleod did not seethe end of it. He had uttered some 
slight exclamation, and got into the open air, as one being 
suffocated: and there were drops of perspiration on his fore- 
head, and a trembling of horror and disgust had seized him. 
His two companions followed him out. 

“ I felt rather faint,” said he, in a low voice — and he did 
not turn to look at them as he spoke — “ the air is close in 
that room.” 

'They moved away. He looked around — nt the beautiful 
green of the trees, and the blue sky, and the sunlight on the 
path — God’s world was getting to be more wholesome again, 
and the choking sensation of disgust was going from Ins 
throat. He seemed, however, rather anxious to get away 
from this place. There was a gate close by ; he proposed 
they should go out by that. As he walked back with them 
to South Bank, they chatted about many of the animals — the 
two girls in especial being much interested in certain pheas- 
ants, whose colors of plumage they thought would look very 
pretty in a dress — but he never referred, either then or at any 
future time, to his visit to the reptile house. Nor did it oc- 
cur to Miss White, in this idle conveisation, to ask him 
whether his Highland blood had inherited any other qualities 
besides that instinctive and deadly horror of serpents. 


CHAPTER X. 

LAST NIGHTS. 

“ Good-night, Macleod ! ” — “ Good-night 1 ” — “ Good 
night ! ” The various voices came from the top of a drag. 
They were addressed to one of two young men who stood on 
the steps of the Star and Garter — black fingers ir. the blaze 


8o 


MACLEOD OE PARE. 


of light. And now the people on the drag had finally en- 
sconced themselves, and the ladies had drawn their ample 
cloaks more completely around their gay costumes, and the 
two grooms were ready to set free the heads of the leaders. 
“ Good-night, Macleod ! ” Lord Beauregdrd called again ; and 
then, with a little preliminary prancing of the leaders, away 
swung the big vehicle through the clear darkness of the 
sweet-scented summer night. 

“ It was awfully good-natured of Beauregard to bring six- 
er your people down and take them back again,” observed 
Lieutenant Ogilvie to his companion. “ He wouldn’t do it 
for most folks. He wouldn’t do it for me. But then you have 
the grand air, Macleod. You seem to be conferring a favor 
when you get one.” 

“The people have been very kind to me,” said Macleod, 
simply. “I do not know why. I wish I could take them all 
up to Castle Dare and entertain them as a prince could enter- 
tain people ” 

“ I want to talk to you about that, Macleod,” said his 
companion. “ Shall we go upstairs again ? I have left my 
hat and coat there.” 

They went upstairs, and entered a long chamber which 
had been formed by the throwing of two rooms into one. 
The one apartment had been used as a sort of withdrawing 
room ; in the other stood the long banquet-table, still covered 
with bright-colored flowers, and dishes of fruit, and decanters 
and glasses. Ogilvie sat down, lit a cigar, and poured him- 
self out some claret. 

“ Macleod,” said he, “ I am going to talk to you like a 
father. I hear you have been going on in a mad way. Surely 
you know that a batchelor coming up to London for a season, 
and being asked about by people who are precious glad to 
get unmarried men to their houses, is not expected to give 
these swell dinner parties ? And then, it seems, you have 
been bringing down all your people in drags. What do those 
flowers cost you ? I dare say this is Lafitte, now ? ” 

“ And if it is, why not drink it and say no more about it ? 

1 think they enjoyed themselves pretty well this evening — 
don’t you, Oglivie ? ” 

“ Yes, yes ; but then, my dear fellow, the cost ! You will 
say it is none of my business ; but what would your decent, 
respectable mother say to all this extravagance ? ” 

“Ah ? ” said Macleod, “ that is just the thing ; I should 
have more pleasure in my little dinner parties if only the 


MAC 1 EOh JF DA RE. 


81 

mother and Janet were here to see. I think the table would 
look a good deal better if my mother was at the head of it. 
And the cost ? — oh, I am only following out her instructions, 
She would not have people think that I was insensible to the 
kindness that has been shown me ; and then we cannot ask 
all those good friends up to Castle Dare; it is an out-of-the- 
way place, and there are no flowers on the dining-table 
there. ” 

He laughed as he looked at the beautiful things before 
him ; they would look strange in the gaunt hall of Castle 
1 >are. 

“ Why,” said he, “ I will tell you a secret, Oglivie. You 
know my cousin Janet— she is the kindest-hearted of all the 
women I know — and when I was coming away she gave me 
£ 2000 , just in case I should need it.” 

“ ^2000 ! ” exclaimed Ogvilie. “ Did she think you were 
going to buy Westminster Abbey during the course of your 
holidays? ” And then he looked at the table before him, and 
a new idea seemed to strike him. “You don’t mean to say, 
Macleod, that it is your cousin’s money ” 

Macleod’s face flushed angrily. Had any other man made 
the suggestion, he would have received a tolerably sharp an- 
swer. But he only said to his old friend Oglivie, — 

“ No, no, Oglivie ; we are not very rich folks; but we have 
not come to that yet. ‘ I’d sell my kilts, I’d sell my shoon,’ 
as the song says, before I touched a farthing of Janet’s 
money. But I had to take it from her so as not to offend 
her. It is wonderful, the anxiety and affection of women 
who live away out of the world like that. There was my 
mother, quite sure that something awful was going to happen 
to me, merely because I was going away for two or three 
months, And Janet — I suppose she knew that our family 
never was very good at saving money — she would have me 
take this little fortune of hers, just as if the old days were 
tome back, and the son of the house was supposed to go to 
Paiis to gamble away every penny.” 

“ By the way, Macleod,” said Oglivie, “you have nevei 
gone to Paris, as you intended.” 

“ No,” said he, trying to balance three nectarines one on 
the top of the other, “ I have not gone to Paris. I have 
made enough friends in London. I have had plenty to oc- 
cupy the time. And now, Oglivie,” he added, brightly, “ I 
am going in for my last frolic, before everybody has left 
London, and you rau^t come to it, even if vou have to 


82 


MACLEOD OF DA RE. 


go down by your cold-meat train again. You know Miss 
Rawlinson; you have seen her at Mrs. Ross’s, no doubt. 
Very well ; I met her first when we went down to the Thames 
yacht race, and afterwards we became great friends ; and the 
dear little old lady already looks on me as if I were her son. 
And do you know what her proposal is ? That she is to give 
me up her house and garden for a garden party, and I am 10 
ask my friends ; and it is to be a dance as well, for we shall 
ask the people to have supper at eight o’clock or so ; and 
then we shall have a marquee— and the garden all lighted 
up — do you see ? It is one of the largest gardens on Camp- 
den Hill ; and the colored lamps hung on the trees will make 
it look very fine ; and we shall have a band to play music 
for the dancers ” 

“ It will cost you £200 or ,£300 at least,” said Oglivie, 
sharply. 

“ What then ? You give your friends a pleasant evening, 
and you show them that you are not ungrateful,” said Mac- 
leod. 

Oglivie began to ponder over this matter. The stories 
he had heard of Macleod’s extravagant entertainments were 
true, then. Suddenly he looked up and said, — 

“ Is Miss White to be one of your guests ? ” 

“ I hope so,” said he. “ The theatre will be closed at 
the end of this week.” 

“ I suppose you have been a good many times to the 
theatre.” 

“To the Piccadilly Theatre ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I have been only once to the Piccadilly Theatre — when 
you and I went together.” said Macleod, coldly ; and they 
spoke no more of that matter. 

By and by they thought they might as well smoke outside, 
and so they went down and out upon the high and w r alled 
terrace overlooking the broad valley of the Thames. And 
now the moon had arisen ii the south, and the winding river 
showed a pale gray among the black woods, and there was 
a silvery light on the stone parapet on which they leaned 
their arms. The night was mild and soft and clear, there 
was an intense silence around, but they heard the faint sound 
of oars far away — some boating party getting home through 
the da *k shadows of the river-side trees. 

“I is a beautiful life you have here in the south,” Mao 
leod said, after a time, “ though I can imagine that the wo 


MACLEOD OL DA EE. 


S3 

men enjoy it more than the men. it is natural for women to 
enjoy pretty colors, and flowers, and bright lights, and music , 
and I suppose it is the mild air that lets their eyes grow so big 
and clear. But the men — I should think they must get tired 
of doing nothing. They are rather melancholy, and their 
hands are white. I wonder they don’t begin to hate Hyde 
Park, and kid gloves, and tight boots. Ogilvie,” said he, 
suddenly, straightening himself up, “what do you say to the 
1 2th? A few breathers over Ben-an-Sloich would put new 
lungs into you. I don’t think you look quite so limp as most 
of the London men ; but still you are not up to the mark. 
And then an occasional run out to Coll or Tiree in that old 
tub of ours, with a brisk sou’-wester blowing across— that 
would put some mettle into you. Mind you, you won’t have 
any grand banquets at Castle Dare. I think it is hard on 
the poor old mother that she should have all the pinching, 
and none of the squandering; but women seem to have 
rather a liking for these sacrifices, and both she and Janet 
are very proud of the family name ; I believe they would live 
on sea-weed for a year if only their representative in London 
could take Buckingham Palace for the season. And Ham- 
ish — don’t you remember Hamish ? — he will give you a 
hearty welcome to Dare, and he will tell you the truth about 
any salmon or stag you may kill, though he was never known 
to come within five pounds of the real weight of any big salmon 
I ever caught. Now then, what do you say ? ” 

“ Ah, it is all very well,” said Lieutenant Ogilvie. “ If we 
could all get what we want, there would scarcely be an offi- 
cer in Aldershot Camp on the 12th of August. But I must 
say there are some capitally good fellows in our mess — and it 
isn’t every one gets the chance you offer me— and there’s 
none of the dog-in-the-manger feeling about them : in short. 
I do believe, Macleod, that I could get off for a week or so 
about the 20th.” 

“The 20th ? So be it. Then you will have the blackcock 
added in.” 

“ When do you leave ? ” 

“ On the 1 st of August — the morning after my garden 
party. You must come to it, Ogilvie. Lady Beauregard 
has persuaded her husband to put off their going to Ireland 
for three days in order to come. And I have got old Ad- 
miral Maitland coming — with his stories of the press-gang, 
and of Nelson, and of the raids on the merchant-ships for offi- 
cers for the navy. Did you know that Miss Rawlinson was 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


H 

an old sweetheart of his ? He knew her when she I'vecl in 
Jamaica with her father — several centuiies ago^ you would 
think, judging by their stories. Her father got £28.000 from 
the government when his slaves were emancipated. I wish 
I could get the old admiral up to Dare — lie and the mother 
would have some stories to tell, I think. But you don’t like 
ting journeys at ninety-two.” 

He was in a pleasant and talkative humor, this bright- 
faced and stalwart young fellow, with his proud, fine features 
and his careless air. One could easily see how these old 
folks had made a sort of a pet of him. But while he went on 
with this desultory chatting about the various people whom 
he had met, and tire friendly invitations he had received, 
and the hopes he had formed of renewing his acquantaince- 
ship with this person and the next person, , should chance 
bring him again to London soon, he never once mentioned 
the name of Miss Gertrude White, or referred to her family, 
or even to her public appearances, about which there was 
plenty of talk at this time. Yet Lieutenant Ogilvie, on his 
rare visits to London, had more than once heard Sir Keith 
Macleod’s name mentioned in conjunction with that of the 
young actress whom society was pleased to regard with a 
special and unusual favor just then ; and once or twice he, 
as Macleod’s friend, had been archly questioned on the sub- 
ject by some inquisitive lady, whose eyes asked more than 
her words. But Lieutenant Ogilvie was gravely discreet. 
He neither treated the matter with ridicule, nor, on the 
other hand, did he pretend to know more than he actually 
knew — which was laterally nothing at all. For Macleod, who 
was, in ordinary circumstances, anything but a reserved or 
austere person, was on this subject strictly silent, evading 
questions with a proud and simple dignity that forbade the 
repetition of them. “ The thing that concerns you not , meddle 
not with : " he observed the maxim himself, and expected 
others to do the like. 

It was an early dinner they had had, after their stroll in 
Richmond Park, and it was a comparatively early train that 
Macleod and his friend now drove down to catch, after he had 
paid his bill. When they reached Waterloo Station it was not 
yet eleven o’clock ; when he, having bade good-bye to Oglivie, 
got to his rooms in Bury Street, it was but a few minutes after, 
lie was joyfully welcomed by his faithful friend Oscar. 

“ You poor dog,” said he, “ here have we been enjoying 


mAcleod of dare. 


H 

ourselves all the day, and you have been in prison. Come, 
shall we go for a run ? ’* 

Oscar jumped up on him with a whine of delight; he 
knew what that taking up of the hat again meant. And then 
there was a silent stealing downstairs, and a slight, pardon- 
able bark of joy in the hall, and a wild dash into the freedom 
of the narrow street when the door was opened. Then Oscar 
moderated his transports, and kept pretty close to his mastei 
as together they began to wander through the desert wilds of 
London. 

Piccadilly ? — Oscar had grown as expert in avoiding the 
rattling broughams and hansoms as the veriest mongrel that 
ever led a vagrant life in London streets. Berekely Square ? 
— here there was comparative quiet, with the gas lamps 
shining up on the thick foliage of the maples. In Grosvenor 
Square he had a bit of a scamper ; but there was no rabbit to 
hunt. In Oxford Street his master took him into a public- 
house and gave him a biscuit and a drink of water; after 
that his spirits rose a bit, and he began to range ahead in 
Baker Street. But did Oscar know any more than his mas- 
ter why they had taken this direction ? 

Still farther north ; and now there were a good many 
trees about ; and the moon, high in the heavens, touched the 
trembling foliage, and shone white on the front of the houses/ 
Oscar was a friendly companion ; but he could not be ex- 
pected to notice that his master glanced somewhat nervously 
along South Bank when he had reached the entrance to that 
thoroughfare. Apparently the place was quite deserted ; 
there was nothing visible but the walls, trees, and houses, 
one side in black shadow, the other shining cold and pale in 
the moonlight. After a moment’s hesitation Macleod re- 
sumed his walk, though he seemed to tread more softly. 

And now, in the perfect silence, he neared a certain house, 
though but little of it was visible over the wall and through 
the trees. Did he expect to see a light in one of those upper 
windows, which the drooping acacias did not altogether con- 
ceal. He walked quickly by, with his head averted. Oscar 
had got a good way in front, not doubting that his master 
was following him. 

But Macleod, perhaps having mustered up further cour- 
age, stopped in his walk, and returned. This time he passed 
more slowly, and turned his head to the house, as if listening. 
There was no light in the windows ; there was no sound at 
all ; there was no motion but that of the trembling acacia 


86 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


leaves as the cold wind of the night stirred them. And then 
he passed over to the south side of the thoroughfare, and 
stood in the black shadow of a high wall ; and Oscar came 
and looked up into his face. 

A brougham rattled by ; then there was utter stillness 
again ; and the moonlight shone on the front of the small 
house, which was to all appearances as lifeless as the grave. 
Then, far away, twelve o’clock struck, and the sound seemed 
distant as the sound of a bell at sea in this intense quiet. 

dde was alone with the night, and with the dreams and 
fancies of the night. Would he, then, confess to himself that 
which he would confess to no other ? Or was it merely some 
passing whim — some slight underchord of sentiment struck 
amidst the careless joy of a young man’s holiday — that had 
led him up into the silent region of trees and moonlight ? 
The scene around him was romantic enough, but he certainly 
had not the features of an anguish-stricken lover. 

Again the silence of the night was broken by the rum- 
bling of a cab that came along the road ; and now, whatever 
may have been the fancy that brought him hither, he turned 
to leave, and Oscar joyfully bounded out into the road. But 
the cab, instead of continuing its route, stopped at the gate 
of the house he had been watching, and two young ladies 
stepped out. Fionaghal, the Fair Stranger, had not, then, 
been wandering in the enchanted land of dreams, but toiling 
home in a humble four-wheeler from the scene of her anxious 
labors ? He would have slunk away rapidly but for an un- 
toward accident. Oscar, ranging up and down, came upon 
an old friend, and instantly made acquaintance with her, on 
seeing which, Macleod, with deep vexation at his heart, but 
with a pleasant and careless face, had to walk along also. 

“ What an odd meeting! ” said he. “ I have been giving 
Oscar a run. I am glad to have a chance of bidding you 
good-night. You are not very tired, I hope.” 

“ I am rather tired,” said she ; “ but I have only two more 
nights, and then my holiday begins. 

He shook hands with both sisters, and wished them good 
night, and departed. As Miss Gertrude White went into her 
father’s house she seemed rather grave. 

“ Gerty,” said the younger sister, as she screwed up the 
gas, “wouldn’t the name of Lady Macleod look well in a 
play-bill ? ” 

The elder sister would not answer ; but as she turned 


i 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


8? 

away there was a quick flush of color in her face — whether 
caused bv anger or by a sudden revelation of her own 
thought it ~as impossible to say. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A FLOWER. 

The many friends Macleod had made in the South — or 
rather those of them who had remained in town till the end 
of the season — showed an unwonted interest "in this nonde- 
script party of his ; and it was at a comparatively early hour 
in the evening that the various groups of people began to 
show themselves in Miss Rawlinson’s garden. That prim 
old lady, with her quick, bright ways, and her humorous little 
speeches, studiously kept herself in the background. It was 
Sir Keith Macleod who was the host. And when he remark- 
ed to her that he thought the most beautiful night of all the 
beautiful time he had spent in the South had been reserved 
for this very party, she replied — looking round the garden 
just as if she had been one of his guests — that it was a pretty 
scene. And it was a pretty scene. The last fire of the sun- 
set was just touching the topmost branches of the trees. In 
*.he colder shade below, the banks and beds of flowers and 
the costumes of the ladies acquired a strange intensity of 
color, Then there was a band playing, and a good deal of 
chatting going on, and one old gentleman with a grizzled 
mustache humbly receiving lessons in lawn tennis from an im- 
perious small maiden of tea. Macleod was here, there, and 
everywhere. The lanterns were to be lit while the people 
were in at supper. Lieutenant Ogilvie was directed to take 
in Lady Beauregard when the time arrived. 

“ You must take her in yourself, Macleod,” said that 
properly constituted youth. “ If you outrage the sacred laws 
of precedence ” 

“I mean to take Miss Rawlinson in to supper,” said 
Macleod; “she is the oldest woman here, and I think, my 
best friend.” 

“ I thought you might wash to give Miss White the place 
of honor,” said Ogilvie, out of sheer impertinence ; but Mac- 


88 


MACLEOD OE DARE . 


leod went off to order the candles to be lit in the marquee, 
where supper was laid. 

By and by he came out again. And now the twilight bad 
drawn on apace ; there was a cold, clear light in the skies, 
while at the same moment a red glow began to shine through 
the canvas of the long tent. He walked over to one little 
group who were seated on a garden chair. 

“ Well,” said he, “ I have got pretty nearly all my peop’e 
together now, Mrs. Ross.” 

“ But where is Gertrude White ? ” said Mrs. Ross ; “ surely 
she is to be here ? ” 

“ Oh yes, I think so,” said he. “ Her father and hersell 
both promised to come. You know her holidays have begun 
now.” 

“ It is a good thing for that girl,” said Miss Rawlinson 
in her quick, staccato fashion, “ that she has few holidays 
Very good thing she has her work to mind. The way people 
run after her would turn any woman’s head. The Grand 

D- is said to have declared that she was one of the three 

prettiest women he saw in England : what can you expect if 
ihings like that get to a girl’s ears ? ” 

“But you know Gerty is quite unspoiled,” said Mrs. 
Ross, warmly. 

“ Yes, so far,” said the old lady, “So far she retains the 
courtesy of being hypocritical.” 

“Oh, Miss Rawlinson, I won’t have you say such things 
of Gerty White ! Mrs. Ross protested. You are a wicked 
old woman — isn’t she Hugh ? ” 

“ I am saying it to her credit,” continued the old lady., 
with much composure. “ What I say is, that most pretty 
women who are much run after are flattered into frankness. 
When they are introduced to you, they don’t take the trouble 
to conceal that they are quite indifferent to you. A plain 
woman will be decently civil, and will smile, and pretend she 
is pleased. A beauty — a recognized beauty — doesn t take the 
trouble to be hypocritical. Now Miss White does.” 

“ It is an odd sort of compliment,” said Colonel Ross, 
laughing. “ What do you think of it Macleod ? ” 

“ These are too great refinements for my comprehen- 
sion,” said he, modestly. “ I think if a pretty woman is uri 
civil to you, it is easy for you to turn on your heel and go 
away.” 

“ I did not say uncivil — don’t you go misrepresenting a 
poor old woman, Sir Keith. I said she is most likely to be 


AT A CL COD OF DA /,* E. 


8g 

flattered into being honest — into showing a stranger that she 
is quite indifferent, whereas a plain woman will try to make 
herself a little agreeable. Now a poor lone creature like my- 
self likes to fancy that people are glad to see her, and Miss 
White pretends as much. It is very kind. By and by she 
will get spoiled like the rest, and then she will become hon- 
est. She will shake hands with me, and then turn off, as 
much as to say, ‘ Go away, you ugly old woman, for I can’t 
be bothered with you, and I don’t expect any money from 
you, and why should I pretend to like you ? ” 

All this was said in a half-jesting way; and it certainly 
did not at all represent — so far as Macleod had ever made 
out — the real opinions of her neighbors in the world held by 
this really kind and gentle old lady. But Macleod had no- 
ticed before that Miss Rawlinson never spoke with any great 
warmth about Miss Gertrude White’s beauty, or her acting, 
or anything at all connected with her. At this very moment, 
when she was apparently praising the young lady, there was 
a bitter flavor about what she said. There may be jealousy 
between sixty-five and nineteen ; and if this reflection oc- 
curred to Macleod, he no doubt assumed that Miss Rawlin- 
son, if jealous at all, was jealous of Miss Gertrude White’s 
influence over — Mrs. Ross. 

“ As for Miss White’s father,” continued the old lady, 
with a little laugh, “ perhaps he believes in those sublime 
theories of art he is always preaching about. Perhaps he 
does. They are very fine. One result of them is that his 
daughter remains on the stage — and earns a handsome in- 
come — and he enjoys himself in picking up bits of curiosi- 
ties.” 

“ Now that is really unfair,” said Mrs. Ross, seriously, 
“ Mr. White is not a rich man, but he has some small means 
that render him quite independent of any income of his 
daughter’s. Why, how did they live before they ever thought 
of letting her try her fortune on the stage ? And the money 
he spent, when it was at last decided she should be carefully 
taught ” 

“ Oh, very well,” said Miss Rawlinson, with a smile ; but 
she nodded her head ominously. If that old man was not ac- 
tually living on his daughter’s earnings, he had at least 
strangled his mother, or robbed the Bank of England, or 
done something or other. Miss Rawlinson was obviously 
not well disposed either to Mr. White or to his daughter. 

At this very moment both these persons made their ap- 


JJO MAC! lion 01 DA !'E. 

pearance, and certainly, as this slender and graceful figure, 
clad in a pale summer costume, came across the lawn, and as 
a smile of recognition lit up the intelligent fine face, these 
critics sitting there must have acknowledged that Gertrude 
White was a singularly pretty woman. And then the fasci- 
nation of that low-toned voice ! She began to explain to 
Macleod why they were so late : some trifling accident ha 1 
happened to Carry. But as these simple, pathetic tones tol 1 
him the story, his heart was filled with a great gentleness and 
pity towards that poor victim of misfortune. He was struck 
with remorse because he had sometimes thought harshly of 
the poor child on account of a mere occasional bit of pert- 
ness. His first message from the Highlands would be to 
her, 

“ O, Willie brew’d a peck o’maut,” 

the band played merrily, as the gay company took their seats 
at the long banquet-table, Macleod leading in the prim old 
dame who had placed her house at his disposal. There was 
a blaze of light and color in this spacious marquee. Bands of 
scarlet took the place of oaken rafters ; there were huge 
blocks of ice on the table, each set in a miniature lake that 
was filled with white water-lilies ; there were masses of flow- 
ers and fruit from one end to the other ; and by the side of 
each menu lay a tiny nosegay, in the centre of which was a 
sprig of bell-heather. This last was a notion of Macleod's 
amiable hostess; she had made up those miniature bouquets 
herself. But she had been forestalled in the pretty compli- 
ment. Macleod had not seen much of Miss Gertrude White 
in the cold twilight outside. Now, in this blaze of yellow 
light, he turned his eyes to her, as she sat there demurely 
flirting with an old admiral of ninety-two, who was one of 
Macleod’s special friends. And what was that flower she wore 
in her bosom — the sole piece of color in the costume of 
white ? That was no sprig of blood-red bell-heather, but a bit 
of real heather — of the common ling ; and it was set amidst a 
few leaves of juniper. Now, the juniper is the badge of the 
Clan Macleod. She wore it next her heart. 

There was laughter, and wine, and merry talking. 

“ Last May a braw wooer,* 

the band played now; but they scarcely listened. 

“Where is your piper. SirKei’li?*' *aid T.adv Beaure 
gard. 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


9 1 

“ At this moment,” said he, “ I should not wonder if he 
was down at the shore, waiting for me.” 

“ You are going away quite soon, then ? ” 

“ To-morrow. But I don’t wish to speak of it. I shcuid 
like to-night to last forever.” 

Lady Beauregard was interrupted by her neighbor. 

“ What has pleased you, then, so much ? ” said his hostess, 
looking up at him. “ London ? Or the people in it ? Oi 
any one person in it?” 

“ Oh,” he said, laughingly, “ the whole thing. What is 
the use of dissecting? It is nothing but holiday making in 
♦his place. Now, Miss Rawlinson, are you brave? Won’t 
you challenge the admiral to drink a glass of wine with you ? 
And you must include his companion — just as they do at the 
city dinners — and I will join you too.” 

And so these old sweethearts drank to each other. And 
Macleod raised his glass too ; and Miss White lowered her 
eyes, and perhaps flushed a little as she touched hers with 
her lips, for she had not often been asked to take a part in this 
old-fashioned ceremony. But that was not the only custom 
they revived that evening. After the banquet was over, and 
the ladies had got some light shawls and gone out into the 
mild summer night, and when the long marquee was cleared, 
and the band installed at the farther end, then there was a 
murmured talk of a minuet. Who could dance it ? Should 
they try it ? 

“ You know it ? ” said Macleod to Miss White. 

“Yes,” said she looking down. 

“ Will you be my partner ? ” 

“ With pleasure,” she answered, but there was some little 
surprise in her voice which he at once detected. 

“ Oh,” said he, “ the mother taught me when I was a child. 
She and I used to have grand dances together. And Hamish 
be taught me the sword-dance.” 

“ Do you know the sword-dance ? ” she said. 

“ Any one can know it,” said he ; “ it is more difficult to 
do it. But at one time I could dance it with four of the 
thickest handled dirks instead of the two swords.” 

“ I hope you will show us your skill to-night,” she said 
with a smile. 

“ Do you think any one can dance the sword-dance with- 
out the pipes ? ” said he, quite simply. 

And now some of the younger people had made bold to 
try this minuet, and Macleod led his partner up to the head 


92 MACLEOD OF DARE. 

of the improvised ball-room, and the slow and graceful music 
began. That was a pretty sight for those walking outside in 
the garden. So warm was the night, that the canvas of one 
side of the marquee had been removed, and those walking 
about in the dark outside could look into this gayly lighted 
place with the beautifully colored figures moving to the slow 
music. And as they thus walked along the gravel-paths, or 
under the trees, the stems of which were decorated with 
spirals of colored lamps, a new light arose in the south to 
shed a further magic over the scene: Almost red at first 
the full moon cleared as it rose, until the trees and bushes 
were touched with a silver radiance, and the few people who 
walked about threw black shadows on the greensward and 
gravel. In an arbor at the farthest end of the garden a 
number of Chinese lanterns shed a dim colored light on a 
table and a few rocking-chairs. There were cigarettes on 
die table. 

By and by from out of the brilliancy of the tent stepped 
Macleod and Fionaghal herself, she leaning on his arm, a 
light scarf thrown round her neck. She uttered a slight cry 
of surprise when she saw the picture this garden presented — 
the colored cups on the trees, the swinging lanterns, the 
broader sheen of the moonlight spreading over the foliage, 
and the lawn, and the walks. 

“ It is like fairyland ! ” she said. 

They walked along the winding gravel-paths ; and now 
that some familiar quadrille was being danced in that bril- 
liant tent, there were fewer people out here in the moon- 
light. 

“ I should begin to believe that romance was possible,” 
she said, with a smile, “ if I often saw a beautiful scene like 
this. It is what we try to get in the theatre ; but I see all 
the bare boards and the lime light — I don't have a chance of 
believing in it.” 

“ Do you have a chance of believing in anything,” said 
he, “ on the stage ? ” 

“ I don't understand you,” she said, gently ; for she was 
sure he would not mean the rudeness that his words literally 
conveyed. 

“And perhaps I cannot explain,” said he. “But — but 
your father was talking the other day about your giving your 
seif up altogether to your art — living the lives of other peo- 
ple for the time being, forgetting yourself, sacrificing your- 
self, having no life of your own but that. .Vhat must ‘he 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


93 


end of it be ? — that you play with emotions and beliefs until 
you have no faith in any one — none left for yourself ; it is 
only the material of your art. Would you not rather like to 
live your own life ? ” 

He had spoken rather hesitatingly, and he was not at all 
sure that he had quite con veyed to her his meaning, though 
he had thought over the subject long enough and often 
enough to get his own impressions of it clear. 

If she had been ten years older, and an experienced co 
queue, she would have said to herself, “ This man hates the 
sta%e because he is jealous of its hold on my life,” and she would 
have rejoiced over the inadvertent confession. But now these 
hesitating words of his seemed to have awakened some quick 
responsive thrill in her nature, for she suddenly said, with an 
earnestness that was not at all assumed : 

“Sometimes 1 have thought of that — it is so strange to 
hear my own doubts repeated. If I could choose my own 
life — yes, I would rather live that out than merely imagining 
the experiences of others. But what is one to do ? You look 
around, and take the world as it is. Can anything be more 
trivial and disappointing ? When you are Juliet in the bal- 
cony, or Rosalind in the forest, then you have some better 
feeling with you, if it is oniy for an hour or so.” 

“ Yes,” said he ; “ and you go on indulging in those doses 

of fictitious sentiment until But I am afraid the night 

air is too cold for you. Shall we go back ? ” 

She could not fail to notice the trace of bitterness, and 
subsequent coldness, with which he spoke. She knew that 
he must have been thinking deeply over this matter, and that 
it was no ordinary thing that caused him to speak with so 
much feeling. But, of course, when he proposed that they 
should return to the marquee, she consented. He could not 
expect her to stand there and defend her whole manner of 
life. Much less could he expect her to give up her profes- 
sion merely because he had exercised his wits in getting up 
some fantastic theory about it. And she began to think tha( 
he had no right to talk to her in this bitter fashion. 

When they had got half way back to the tent, he paused 
for a moment. 

“ I am going to ask a favor of you,” he said, ir a low 
voice. “ I have spent a pleasant time in England, and I 
cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for letting me be- 
come one of your friends. To-morrow morning I am going 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 


94 

back home. I should like you to give me that flower — as 
some little token of remembrance.” 

Idle small lingers did not tremble at all as she took the 
flower from her dress. She presented it to him with a charm 
ing smile and without a word. What was the giving of a 
flower? There was a cart-load of roses in the tent. 

But this flower she had worn next her heart. 

A " , ... 4 . 


CHAPTER XII. 

WHITE HEATHER. 

And now behold ! the red flag flying from the summit of 
Castle Dare — a spot of brilliant color in this world of whirl- 
ing mist and flashing sunlight. For there is half a gale blow- 
ing in from the Atlantic, and gusty clouds come sweeping 
over the islands, so that now the Dutchman, and now Fladda, 
and now Ulva disappears from sight, and then emerges into 
the sunlight again, dripping and shining after the bath, while 
ever and anon the huge promontory of Rq-Treshanish shows 
a gloomy purple far in the north. But the wind and the 
weather may do what they like to-day ; for has not the word 
just come down from the hill that the smoke of the steamer 
has been made out in the south ? and old Hamish is flying 
this way and that, fairly at his wits’ end with excitement ; and 
Janet Macleod has cast a last look at the decorations of 
heather and juniper in the great hall ; while Lady Macleod, 
dressed in the most stately fashion, has declared that she is 
as able as the youngest of them to walk down to the point to 
welcome home her son. 

“ Ay, your leddyship, it is very bad,” complains the dis- 
tracted Hamish. “ that it will be so rough a day this day, and 
Sir Keith not to come ashore in his own gig, but in a fishing- 
boat, and to corre ashore af the fishing qjuy, too ; but it is 
his own men will go out for him, and not the fishermen at all, 
though I am sure they will hef a dram whatever when Sir 
Keith comes ashore. And will you not tek the pony, youi 
leddyship ? for it is a long road to the quay.” 

“ No, I will not take the pony, Hamish,” said the tall, 
white-haired dame, “ and it is not of much consequence what 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 


95 

boat Sir Keith has, so long as he comes back to us. And 
now I think you had better go down to the quay yourself, and 
see that the cart is wailing and the boat ready.” 

But how could old Hamish go down to the quay? He 
was in his own person skipper, head keeper, steward, butler, 
and general major-domo, and ought on such a day as this to 
have been in half a dozen places at once. From the earliest 
morning he had been hurrying hither and thither, in his im- 
patience making use of much voluble Gaelic. He had seen 
ihe yacht’s crew in their new jersies. He had been round 
the kennels. He had got out a couple of bottles of the best 
claret that Castle Dare could afford. He had his master’s 
letters arranged on the library table, and had given a final 
rub to the guns and rifles on the rack. He had even been 
down to the quay, swearing at the salmon-fishers for having 
so much lumber lying about the place where Sir Keith Mac- 
leod was to land. And if he was to go down to the quay 
now, how could he be sure that the ancient Christiana, who 
was mistress of the kitchen as far as her husband Hamish 
would allow her to be, would remember all his instructions ? 
And then the little graudaughter Christiana, would she re- 
member her part in the ceremony ? 

However, as Hamish could not be in six places at once, 
he decided to obey his mistress’s directions, and went hur- 
riedly off to the quay, overtaking on his way Donald the 
piper lad, who was apparelled in all his professional finery. 

“ And if ever you put wind in your pipes, you will put 
wind in your pipes this day, Donald,” said he to the red- 
haired lad. “ And I will tell you now what you will play 
when you come ashore from the steamer : it is the ‘ Farewell 
to Chubraltar’ you will play.” 

“ The ‘ Farewell to Gibraltar ! ’ said Donald, peevishly, 
for he was bound in honor to let no man interfere with his 
proper business. “ It is a better march than that I will play, 
Hamish. It is the ‘ Heights of Alma,’ that was made by Mr. 
Ross, the Queen’s own piper; and will you tell me that the 
‘ Heights of Alma ’ is not a better march than the ‘ Farewell 
to G ibraltar ? ” 

Hamish pretended to pay no heed to this impertinent 
boy. PI is eye was fixed on a distant black speck that was 
becoming more and more pronounced out there amidst the 
grays and greens of the windy and sunlit sea Occasionally 
it disappeared altogether, as a cloud of rain swept across to- 
ward the giant cliffs of Mull, and then again it would appear, 


At ACT GOD OF DARK. 


96 

sharper .and blacker than ever, while the masts and funnel 
were now visible as well as the hull. When Donald and his 
companion got down to the quay, they found the men already 
in the big boat, getting ready to hoist the huge brown lug- 
sail ; and there was a good deal of laughing and talking go- 
ing on, perhaps in anticipation of the dram they were sure tc- 
get when their master returned to Castle Dare. Donald 
jumped down on the rude stone ballast, and made his way up 
to the bow ; Hamish, who remained on shore, helped to shove 
her off ; then the heavy lugsail was quickly hoisted, the sheet 
hauled tight ; and presently the broad-beamed boat was 
ploughing its way through the rushing seas, with an occas- 
ional cloud of spray coming right over her from stem to stern. 
“ Fhir a bhata,” the men sung, until Donald struck in with his 
pipes, and the wild skirl of “ The Barren Rocks of Aden 
was a fitter sort of music to go with these sweeping winds 
and plunging seas. 

And now we will board the steamer, where Keith Macleod 
is up on the bridge, occasionally using a glass, and again 
talking to the captain, who is beside him. First of all on 
board he had caught sight of the red Hag floating over Castle 
D rre ; and his heart had leaped up at that sign of welcome. 
T hen he could make out the dark figures on the quay, and 
t \e hoisting of the lugsail, and the putting off of the boat, 
it was not a good day for observing things, for heavy clouds 
vere quickly passing over, followed by bewildering gleams 
!>f a sort of watery sunlight ; but as it happened, one of these 
sudden flashes chanced to light up a small plateau on the 
side of the hill above the quarry, just as the glass was directed 
on that point. Surely — surely — these two figures ? 

“ Why, it is the mother — and Janet 1 ” he cried. 

He hastily gave the glass to his companion. 

“ Look ! ” said he. “ Don’t you think that is Lady Mao 
leod and my cousin ? What could have tempted the old lady 
to come away down there on such a squally day ? ” 

“ Oh yes, I think it is the ladies,” said the captain; and 
then he added, with a friendly smile, “and I think it is to 
see you all the sooner, Sir Keith, that they have come down 
to the shore.” 

“ Then,” said he, “ I must go down and get my gillie, and 
show him his future home.” 

He went below the hurricane deck to a corner in which 
Oscar was chained up. Beside the dog, sitting on a camp- 
stool, and wrapped round with a tartan plaid, was the person 


MACLEOD OF DARE 


97 

whom Macleod had doubtless referred to as his gillie. He 
was not a distinguished-looking attendant to be travelling 
with a Highland chieftain. 

“ Johnny, my man, come on deck now, and I will show 
you where you are going to live. You’re all right now, aren’t 
you ? And you will be on the solid land again in about ten 
minutes.” 

Macleod’s gillie rose — or, rather, got down — from the 
:a:npstool, and showed himself to be a miserable, emaciated 
child of ten or eleven, with a perfectly colorless face, fright- 
ened gray eyes, and starved white hands. The contrast be- 
tween the bronzed and bearded sailors — who were now hurry- 
ing about to receive the boat from Dare — and this pallid and 
shrunken scrap of humanity was striking ; and when Macleod 
took his hand, and half led and half carried him up on deck, 
the look of terror that he directed on the plunging waters all 
around showed that he had not had much experience of the 
sea. Involuntarily he had grasped hold of Macleod’s coat as 
if for protection. 

“Now, Johnny, look right ahead. Do you see the big 
house ou the cliffs over yonder? ” 

The child, stilj clinging on to his protector, looked all 
round with the dull, pale eyes, and at length said, — 

“ No.” 

“ Can’t you see that house, poor chap ? Well, do you see 
that boat over there ? You must be able to see that.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“That boat is to take you ashore. You needn’t be afraid. 
If you don’t like to look at the sea, get down into the bottom 
of the boat, and take Oscar with you, and you’ll see nothing 
until you are ashore. Do you understand ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Coine along, then.” 

For now the wild skirl of Donald’s pipes was plainly audi- 
ble ; and the various packages — the new ride, the wooden 
;ase containing the wonderful dresses for Lady Macleod and 
ner niece, and what not — were all ranged ready; to say noth- 
ing of some loaves of white bread that the steward was send- 
ing ashore at Hamish’s request. And then the heaving boat 
came close to, her sail hauled down ; and a rope was thrown 
and caught ; and then there was a hazardous scrambling down 
the dripping iron steps, and a notable spring on the part of 
Oscar, who had escaped from the hands of the sailors. As 
for the new gillie, he resembled nothing so much as a limp 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


9 » 

bunch of clothes, as Macleod’s men, wondering not a little, 
caught him up and passed him astern. Then the rope was 
thrown oft, the steamer steamed slowly ahead, the lugsail 
was run up again, and away the boat plunged for the shore, 
with Donald playing the “ Heights of Alma ” as though he 
would rend the skies. 

i4 Hold your noise, Donald 1 ” his master called to him 
“'You will have plenty of time to play the pipes in the even 
ing” 

For he was greatly delighted to be among his own people 
again ; and he was eager in his questions of the men as to all 
that had happened in his absence ; and it was no small thing 
to them that Sir Keith Macleod should remember their 
affairs, too, and ask after their families and friends. Donald’s 
loyalty was stronger than his professional pride. He was 
not offended that he had been silenced ; he only bottled up 
his musical fervor all the more ; and at length, as he neared 
the land, and knew that Lady Macleod and Miss Macleod 
were within hearing, he took it that he knew better than any 
one else what was proper to the occasion, and once more the 
proud and stirring march strove with the sound of the hurry- 
ing waves. Nor was that all. The piperjad was doing his 
best. Never before had he put such fire into his work ; but 
as they got close inshore the joy in his heart got altogether 
die mastery of him, and away he broke into the mad delight 
of “ Lady Mary Ramsay’s Reel.” Hamish on the quay heard, 
and he strutted about as if he were himself playing, and that 
before the Queen. And then he heard another sound — that 
of Macleod’s voice : 

“ Stand by lads / . . Down with her l ” — and the flapping 
sail, with its swinging gaff, rattled down into the boat. At 
the same moment Oscar made a clear spring into the water, 
gained the landing-steps, and dashed upward — dripping as he 
was — to two ladies who were standing on the quay above. 
And Janet Macleod so far forgot what was due to her best 
gown that she caught his head in her arm#, as he pawed and 
whined with delight. 

That was a glad enough party that started off and up the 
hillside for Castle Dare. Janet Macleod did not care to con- 
ceal that she had been crying a little bit ; and there were 
proud tears in the eyes of the stately old dame who walked 
with her; but the most excited of all was Hamish, who could 
by no means be got to understand that his master did not 
all at once want to hear about the trial of the young setters. 


MAC! EC D OF DAP F.. 


99 

and the price of the sheep sold the week before at Tuber* 
mory, and the stag that was chased bv the Carsaig men on 

Tuesday. 

“ Confound it,, Hamish ! ” Macleod said, laughing, “ leave 
all those things till after dinner.” 

“ Oh, ay, oh ay, Sir Keith, we will hef plenty of time aftet 
dinner,” said Hamish, just as if he were one of the party, 
but very nervously working with the ends of his thumbs ail 
the time, “ and 1 will tell you of the fine big stag that has 
been coming down every night— every night, as I am a living 
man — to Mrs. Murdoch’s corn; and l wass saying to her, 
‘Just hold your tongue, Mrs. Murdoch ’ — that wass what I 
will say to her — ‘just hold your tongue, Mrs, Murdoch, and 
be a civil woman, for a day or two days, and when Sir Keitn 
comes home it iss no more at all the stag will trouble you — 
oh no, no more at all ; there will be no more trouble about 
the stag when Sir Keith comes home.” 

And old Hamish laughed at his own wit, but it was in 
a sort of excited way. 

“ Look here, Hamish, I want you to do this for me,” 
Macleod said ; and instantly the face of the old man — it was 
a fine face, too, with its aquiline nose, and grizzled hair, and 
keen hawk-like eyes — was full of an eager attention. “Go 
back and fetch that little boy I left. with Donald. You had 
better look after him yourself. I don’t think any water came 
over him ; but give him dry clothes if he rs wet at all. And 
feed him up : the little beggar will take a lot of fattening 
without any harm.” 

“ Where is he to go to ? ” said Hamish, doubtfully. 

“ You are to make a keeper of him. When you have fat- 
tened him up a bit, teach him to feed the dogs. When he 
gets bigger, he can clean the guns.” 

“ I will let no man or boy clean the guns for you but my- 
self, Sir Keith,” the old man said, quite simply, and without 
a shadow of disrespect, “ I will hef no risks of the kind.” 

“ Very well, then ; but go and get the boy, and make him 
at home as much as you can. Feed him up.” 

“ Who is it, Keith ? ” his cousin said, “ that you are 
speakingof as if he was a sheep or a calf? ” 

“ Faith,” said he, laughing, “ if the philanthropists heard 
of it, they would prosecute me for slave-stealing, ?. bought 
the boy — for a sovereign,” 

“ I think you have made a bad bargain, Keith,” his 


IOO 


MACLEOD OF DAFF \ 

mother said , but ?>he was quite prepared to hear ol some ab- 
surd whim of his. 

“Well/’ said he, “I was going into Trafalgar Square, 
where the National Gallery of pictures is, mother, and there 
is a cab-stand in the street, and there was a cabman standing 
there, munching at a lump of dry bread that he cut with a 
jack-knife, I never saw a cabman do that before ; I should 
have been less surprised if he had been having a chicken and 
a bottle of port. However, in front of this big cabman this 
little chap I have brought with me was standing; quite in 
rags ; no shoes on his feet, no cap on his wild hair ; and he 
was looking fixedly at the big lump of bread. I never saw 
any animal look so starved and so hungry ; his eyes were 
quite glazed with the fascination of seeing the man plough- 
ing away at this lump of loaf. And I never saw any child so 
thin. His hands were like the claws of a bird; and his 
trousers were short and torn so that you could see his legs 
were like two pipe-stems. At last the cabman saw him. ‘Get 
out o’ the way/ says he. The little chap slunk off, fright- 
ened, I suppose. Then the man changed his mind. ‘Come 
here/ says he. But the little chap was frightened, and 
wouldn’t come back ; so he went after him, and thrust the 
loaf into his hand, and bade him be off. I can tell you, the 
way he went into that loaf was very fine to see. It was like 
a weasel at the neck of a rabbit. It was like an otter at the 
back of a salmon. And that was how I made his acquaint- 
ance,” Macleod added, carelessly. 

“ But you have not told us why you brought him up here,” 
his mother said. 

“Oh,” said he, with a sort of laugh, “ I was looking at 
him, and I wondered whether Highland mutton and High- 
land air would make any difference in the wretched little 
skeleton ; and so I made his acquaintance. I went home 
with him to a fearful place — I have got the address, but I 
did not know there were such quarters in London — and I saw 
his mother. The poor woman was very ill, and she had a 
lot of children ; and she seemed quite glad when I offered to 
take this one and make a herd or a gamekeeper of him. I 
promised he should go to visit her once a year, that she might 
see whether there was any difference. And I gave her a 
sovereign.” 

“You were quite right, Keith,” his cousin said, gravely • 
H You run a great risk. Do they hang slavers ?” 

“ Mother,” said he, for by this time the ladies were stand 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


lot 


ing still, so that Hamish and the new gillie should overtake 
them, “ you mustn’t laugh at the little chap when you see 
him with the plaid taken off. The fact is, 1 took him to a 
shop in the neighborhood to get some clothes for him, but I 
couldn’t get anything small enough. He dots\ook ridiculous ; 
but you mustn’t laugh at him, for he is like a gill for sensi- 
tiveness. But when he has been fed up a bit, and got some 
Highland air into his lungs, his own mother won’t know him. 
And you will get him some other clothes, Janet — some kilts, 
maybe — when his legs get stronger.” 

Whatever Keith Macleod did was sure to be right in his 
mother’s eyes, and she only said, with a laugh, — 

“ Well, Keith, you are not like your brothers. When they 
brought me home presents, it was pretty things ; but all your 
curiosities, wherever you go, are the halt, and the lame, and 
the blind ; so that people laugh at you, and say that Castle 
Dare is becoming the hospital of Mull.” 

“ Mother, I don’t care what the people say.” 

“ And indeed I know that,” she answered. 

Their waiting had allowed Hamish and the new gillie to 
overtake them ; and certainly the latter, deprived of his 
plaid, presented a sufficiently ridiculous appearance in the 
trousers and jacket that were obviously too big for him. Tint 
neither Lady Macleod nor Janet laughed at all when they 
saw this starved London waif before them. 

“Johnny,” said Macleod, “here are two ladies who will 
be very kind to you, so you needn’t be afraid to live here.” 

But Johnny did look mortally afraid, and instinctively 
once more took hold of Macleod’s coat. Then he seemed to 
have some notion of his duty. He drew back one foot, and 
made a sort of courtesy. Probably he had seen girls do this, 
in mock-heroic fashion, in some London court. 

“And are you very tired ? ” said Janet Macleod, in that 
soft voice of hers that all children loved. 

“ Yes,” said the child. 

“ Kott bless me ! ” cried Hamish, “ I did not know that ! * 
— and therewith the old man caught up Johnny Wickesas if 
he had been a bit of ribbon, and flung him on to his shoulder, 
and marched off to Castle Dare. 

Then the three Macleods continued on their way — 
through the damp-smelling fir-wood ; over the bridge that 
spanned the brawling brook ; again through the fir-wood ; 
until they reached the open space surrounding the big stone 
house. They stood for a minute there — high over the great 


102 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


plain of the sea, that was beautiful with a thousand tints of 
light. And there was the green island of Ulva, and there 
the darker rocks of Colonsay, and farther out, amidst the 
windy vapor and sunlight, Lunga, and Fladda, and the 
Dutchman's Cap, changing in their hue ever} 7 minute as the 
clouds came driving over the sea. 

“ Mother,” said he, “ I have not tasted fresh air since I 
left I am not sorry to get back to Dare.” 

*' And 1 don’t think we are sorry to see you back, Keith, * 
his cousin said, modestly. 

And yet the manner of his welcome was not imposing 
they are not very good at grand ceremonies on the western 
shores of Mull. It is true that Donald, relieved of the care 
of Johnny Wickes, had sped by a short-cut through the fir- 
wood, and was now standing in the gravelled space outside 
the house, playing the “ Heights of Alma ” with a spirit 
worthy of all the MacCruimins that ever lived. But as for 
the ceremony of welcome, this was all there was of it : When 
Keith Macleod went up to the hall door, he found a small 
girl of five or six standing quite by herself at the open en- 
trance. This was Christina, the grand-daughter of Hamish, 
a pretty little girl with w ide blue eyes and yellow hair 

“ Halloo, Christina,” said Macleod, “ won’t you let me 
into the house ? ” 

“ This is for you, Sir Keith,” said she, in the Gaelic, and 
she presented him with a beautiful bunch of w r hite heather. 
Now white heather, in that part of the country, is known to 
bring great good fortune to the possessor of it. 

“ And it is a good omen,” said he, lightly, as he took the 
child up and kissed her. And that was the manner of his 
welcome to Castle Dare. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

AT HOME. 

The two women-folk, with w'hom he was most nearly 
brought into contact, were quite convinced that his stay in 
London had in nowise altered the buoyant humor and brisk 
activity of Keith Macleod. Castle Dare awoke into a new 
life on his return. lie was all about and over the place 


MACLEOD OF DAK E. 


io 3 

accompanied by the faithful Hamish ; and he had a friendly 
word and smile for every one he met. He was a good mas- 
ter : perhaps he was none the less liked because it was pretty 
well understood that he meant to be master. His good-na- 
ture had nothing of weakness in it. “ If you love me, I love 
you,” says the Gaelic proverb ; “ otherwise do not come neaf 
me .” There was not a man or lad about the place who would 
not have adventured his life for Macleod ; but all the same 
they were well aware that the handsome young master, who 
seemed to go through life with a merry’ laugh on his face, 
was not one to be trifled with. This John Fraser, an Aber- 
deen man, discovered on the second night after Madeod’s 
return to Castle Dare. 

Macleod had the salmon-fishing on this part of the coast, 
and had a boat’s crew of four men engaged in the work. One 
of these having fallen sick, Hamish had to hire a new hand, 
an Aberdeenshire man, who joined the crew just befoie Mac- 
leod’s departure from London. This Fraser turned ••*it to be 
a “ dour ’’ man ; and his discontent and grumbling scorned to 
be affecting the others, so that the domestic peace of Dare 
was threatened. On the night in question old Hamish came 
into Macleod’s conjoint library and gun-room. 

“ The fishermen hef been asking me again, sir,” observed 
Hamish, with his cap in his hand. “ What will I say r to 
them ? ” 

“ Oh, about the wages ? ” Macleod said, turning round. 

“ Ay, sir.” 

“ Well, Hamish, I don’t object. Tell them that what they 
say is right. This year has been a very good year ; vve have 
made some money ; I will give them two shillings a week 
more if they like. But then, look here, Hamish— if they have 
their wages raised in a good year, they must have them low- 
ered in a bad year. They cannot expect to share the profit 
without sharing the loss too. Do you understand that, 
Hamish ? ” 

“ Yes, Sir Keith, I think I do.” 

“ Do you think you could put it into good Gaelic for 
them ? ” 

“ Oh ay.” 

“ Then tell them to choose for themselves. But make it 
clear.” 

“ Ay, Sir Keith,” said Hamish. “ And if it was not for 
that — — man, John Fraser, there would be no word of this 
* thing. And there is another thing I will hef to speak to you 


MACLEOD Or DAKS. 


io 4 

about. Sir Keith ; and it is John Fraser, too, who is at the 
bottom of this, I will know that fine, it is more than two or 
three times that you will warn the men not to bathe in the 
bay below the castle ; and not for many a day will any one 
do that, for the Cave bay it is not more as half a mile away. 
And when you were in London, Sir Keith, it was this man 
Joh 1 Fraser he would bathe in the bay below the castle in 
the morning, and he got one or two of the others to join him ; 
and when i bade him go away, he will say that the sea be* 
longs to no man. And this morning, too ” 

“This morning!” Macleod said, jumping to his feet. 
There was an angry flash in his eyes. 

“Ay, sir, this very morning I saw two of them myself — 
and John Fraser he was one of them— and I went down and 
said to them, ‘It will be a bad day for you,’ says I to them, 
‘if Sir Keith will find you in this bay/” 

“ Are they down at the quay now?” Macleod said. 

“ Ay, they will be in the house now.” 

“ Come along with me, Hamish. I think we will put this 
right.” 

He lifted his cap and went out into the cool night air, fol- 
lowed by Hamish. They passed through the dark fir-wood 
until they came in sight of the Atlantic again, which was 
smooth enough to show the troubled reflection of the bigger 
stars. They went down the hillside until they were close to 
the shore, and then they followed the rough path to the quay. 
The door of the square stone building was open ; the men 
were seated on rude stools or on spare coils of rope, smok- 
ing. Macleod called them out, and they came to the door. 

“Now look here, boys,” said he, “you know I will not 
allow any man to bathe in the bay before the house. I told 
you before ; I tell you now for the last time. They that want 
to bathe can go along to the Cave bay ; and the end of it is 
this— and there will be no more words about it — that the first 
man 1 catch in the bay before the house I will take a horse- 
whip to him, and he will have as good a run as ever he had 
in his life.” 

With that he was turning away, when he heard <^ne of the 
men mutter, “ I would like to see you do if.'” Ht wheeled 
round instantly — and if some of his London friends could 
have seen the look of his face at this moment, they might 
have altered their opinion about the obliteration of certain 
qualities from, the temperament of the Highlanders of oui 
own day. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


I# J 


u Who said that ? ” he exclaimed. 

There was no answer. 

“ Come out iiere, you four men ! ” he said. u Stand in a 
line there. Now let the man who said that step out and face 
me. I will show him who is to be master here. If he thinks 
he can master me, well ; but it is one or the other of us who 
will be master! ” 

There was not a sound or a motion ; but Macleod sprang 
forward, caught the man Fraser by the throat, and shook him 
thrice — as he might have shaken a reed. 

“ You scoundrel ! ” he said. “ You coward ! Are you 
afraid to own it was you ? There has been nothing but Dad 
feeling since ever you brought your ugly face among us — 
well, we’ve had enough of you ! ” 

He flung him back. 

“ Hamish,” said he, “ you will pay this man his month's 
wages to-hight. Pack him off with the Gometra men in the 
morning ; they will take him out to the Pioneer. And look 
you here, sir,” he added, turning to Fraser, “ it will be a bad 
day for you the day that I see your face again anywhere 
about Castle Dare.” 

He walked off and up to the house again, followed by the 
reluctant Hamish. Hamish had spoken of this matter only 
that Macleod should give the men a renewed warning; he 
had no notion that this act of vengeance would be the result. 
And where were they to get a man to put in Fraser’s place ? 

It was about an hour later that Hamish again came into 
the room. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” said he, “ but the men are out- 
side.” 

“ I cannot see them.” 

“ They are ferry sorry, sir, about the whole matter, and 
there wili be no more bathing in the front of the house, and 
the man Fraser they hef brought him up to say he is ferry 
sorry too.” 

“ They have brought him up ? ” 

“ Ay, sir,” said Hamish, with a grave smile. “ It was for 
fighting him they were one after the other because he will 
make a bad speech to you ; and he could not fight three men 
one after the other ; and so they hef made him come up to 
say he is ferry, sorry too ; and will let him stay on to the 
end of the season ? ” 

“No. Tell the men that if they \yill behave themselves, we 
can go on as we did before, in peace and friendliness ; but I 


MACLEOD OF DALE. 


106 

mean to be master in this place. And I will not have a 
sulky fellow like this Fraser stirring up quarrels. He must 
pack and be off.” 

* It will not be easy to get another man, Sir Keith,” old 
Hamish ventured to say. 

“Get Sandy over from the Umpire .” 

“ But surely you will want the yacht, sir, when Mr. Ogil- 
vie comes to Dare ? ” 

“ I tell you Hamish, that I will not have that fellow about 
•the place. That is an end of it. Did you think it was only 
a threat that I meant ? And have you not heard the old say- 
ing that ‘ one does not apply plaster to a threat ? ' You will 
send him to Gometra in the morning in time for the boat.” 

And so the sentence of banishment was confirmed ; and 
Hamish got a young fellow from Ulva to take the place of 
Fraser ; and from that time to the end of the fishing season 
perfect peace and harmony prevailed between master and 
men. 

But if Lady Macleod and Janet saw no change whatever 
in Macleod’s manner after his return from the South, Ham- 
ish, who was more alone with the young man, did. Why this 
strange indifference to the very occupations that used to be 
the chief interest of his life ? He would not go out after the 
deer ; the velvet would be on their horns yet. He would not 
go out after the grouse : what was the use of disturbing them 
before Mr. Ogil vie came up ? 

“ I am in no hurry,” he said, almost petulantly. “ Shall I 
not have to be here the whole winter for the shooting? ' — 
and Hamish was amazed to hear him talk of the winter shoot- 
ing as some compulsory duty, whereas in these parts it far 
exceeded in variety and interest the very limited low-ground 
shooting of the autumn. Until young Ogilvie came up, Mac- 
cleod never had a gun in his hand. He had gone fishing two 
or three days ; but had generally ended by surrendering his 
rod to Hamish, and going for a walk up the glen, alone. The 
only thing he seemed to care about, in the way of out of 
door occupation, was the procuring of otter-skins ; and every 
man and boy in his service was ordered to keep a sharp 
lookout on that stormy coast for the prince of fur-bearing 
animals. Years before he had got enough skins together tor 
a jacket for his cousin Janet ; and that garment of beautiful 
thick black fur — dyed black, of course — was as silken and rich 
as when it was made. Why should he forget his own theory of 


M:K't /•()/> OF DlA'R. 


J0 7 


letting all animals have a chance in urging a war of extermi 
nation against the otter ? 

This preoccupation of mind, of which Hamish was alone 
observant, was nearly inflicting a cruel injury on Hamish 
himself. On the morning of the day on which Ogilvie was 
expected to arrive, Hamish went in to his master’s library. 
Macleod had been reading a book, but he had pushed it 
i aside, and now both his elbows were on the table, and he 
was leaning his head on his hands, apparently in deep inedi- . 
tation of some kind or other. 

“ Will 1 tek the bandage ofl Nell’s foot now, sir ? ” 

“ Oh yes, if you like. You know as much as I do about 
it.” 

“ Oh, I am quite sure,” said Hamish, brightly, “ that she 
will do ferry well to-morrow. I will tek her whatever ; and 
I can send her home if it is too much for her.” 

Macleod took up his book again. 

“ Very well, Hamish. But you have plenty to do about 
the house. Duncan and Sandy can go with us to-morrow.” 

The old man started, and looked at his master for a sec- 
ond. Then he said, “ Ferry well, sir,” in a low voice, and 
left the room. 

But for the hurt, and the wounded, and the sorrowful 
there was always one refuge of consolation in Castle Dare. 
Hamish went straight to Janet Macleod ; and she was aston- 
ished to see the emotion of which the keen, hard, handsome 
face of the old man was capable. Who before had ever seen 
tears in the eyes of Hamish MacIntyre ? 

“ And perhaps it is so,” said Hamish, with his head hang- 
ing down, “and perhaps it is that I am an old man now, and 
not able any more to go up to the hills ; but if 1 am not able 
*or that, I am not able for anything ; and I will not ask Sir 
Keith to keep me about the house, or about the yacht. It is 
younger men will do better as me ; and I can go away tc 
Greenock ; and if it is an old man I am, maybe I will And a 
l lace in a smack, for all that ” 

“Oh, nonsense, Hamish !” Janet Macleod said, with her 
Kindly eyes bent on him. “You may be sure Sir Keith did 
not mean anything like that ” 

“ Ay, mem,” said the old man, proud’y, “ and who wass 
it that first put a gun into his hand ? and who wass it skinned 
the ferry first seal that he shot in Loch Scridain? and who 
wass it told him the name of every spar and sheet of th e Um- 
pire, and showed him how to hold a tiller ? And if there is 


* 


, 0 g A/A Cl. I- on OF DA RE. 

any man knows more as me about the birds and the deer, 
that is right — let him go out ; but it is the first day 1 hef not 
been out with Sir Keith since ever I wass at Castle Dare ; 
and now it is time that I am going away ; for I am an old 
man ; and the younger men they will be better on the hills, 
and in the yacht too. But I can make my living whatever.” 

“ Hamish, you are speaking like a foolish man,” said 
Janet Macleod to him. “ Vou will wait heie now till I go tc 
Sir Keith.” 

She wen to him. 

“ Keith, said she, “ do you know that you have nearly 
broken old Hamish’s heart ? ” 

“What is the matter ? J ’ said lie, looking up in wonder. 

“ He says you have told him he is not to go out to the 
shooting with you to-morrow ; and that is the first time he has 
been superseded ; and he takes it that you think he is an old 
man ; and he talks of going away to Greenock to join a 
smack.” 

“ Oh, nonsense !” Macleod said. “I was not thinking 
when I told him. He may come with us if he likes. At the 
same time, Janet, I should think Norman Ogilvie will laugh 
at seeing the butler come out as a keeper.” 

“You know quite well, Keith,” said his cousin, “ that 
Hamish is no more a butler than he is captain of the Umpire 
or clerk of the accounts. Hamish is simply everybody and 
everything at Castle Dare. And if you speak of Norman 
Ogilvie — well, I think it would be more like yourself, Keith, 
to consult the feelings of an old man rather than the opinions 
of a young one.” 

“You are always on the right side, Janet. Tell Hamish 
1 am very sorry. I meant him no disrespect. And he may 
call me at one in the morning if he likes. He never looked 
on me but as a bit of his various machinery for killing things.” 

“ That is not fair of you, Keith. Old Hamish would give 
his right hand to save you the scratch of a thorn.” 

She went off to cheer the old man, and he turned to his 
book. But it was not to read it ; it was only to stare at the 
outside of it in an absent sort of way. The fact is, he had 
found in it the story of a young aid-de-camp who was intrusted 
with a message to a distant part of the held while a battle 
was going forward, and who in mere bravado rode across a 
part of the ground open to the enemy’s fire. He came back 
laughing. He had been hit, he confessed, but he had es« 
caped ; and he carelessly shook a drop or two of blood from 


MACLEOD OF DARE . lQ g 

a flesh wound on his hand. Suddenly, however, he turned 
pale, wavered a little, and then fell forward on his horse’s 
neck, a corpse. 

Macleod was thinking about this story rather gloomily. 
But at last he got up with a more cheerful air, and seized his 
cap. 

“ And if it is my death-wound I have got,” he was think- 
ing to himself, as he set out for the boat that was waitir g for 
| him at the shore, “ I will not cry out too soon.” 


CHAPTER XIV 

A FRIEND. 

His death-wound ! There was but little suggestion of 
any death-wound about the manner or speech of this light- 
hearted and frank-spoken fellow who now welcomed his old 
friend Ogilvie ashore. He swung the gun-case into the cart 
as if it had been a bit of thread. He himself would carry 
Ogilvie’s top-coat over his arm. 

“ And why have you not come in your hunting tartan ? ” 
said he, observing the very precise and correct shooting cos- 
tume of the young man. 

“ Not likely,” said Mr. Ogilvie, laughing. “ I don’t like 
walking through clouds with bare knees, with a chance of 
sitting down on an adder or two. And I’ll tell you what it 
is, Macleod ; if the morning is wet, I will not go out stalk- 
ing, if all the stags in Christendom were there. I know what 
it is ; I have had enough of it in my younger days.” 

“My dear fellow,” Macleod said, seriously, “ you must 
rmt talk here as if you could do what you liked. It is not 
wli*at you wish to do, or what you don’t wish to do ; it is what 
Hamish orders to have done. Do you think I would dare tc 
tell Hamish what we must do to-morrow? ” 

“ Very well, then, I will see Hamish myself : I dare say 
he remembers me.” 

And he did see Hamish that evening, and it was arranged 
between them that if the morning looked threatening, they 


I 10 


MAC LEO L 0E DARE. 

would leave the deer alone, and would merely take the lower 
lying moors in the immediate neighborhood of Castle Dare. 
Hamish took great care to impress on the young man that 
Macleod had not yet taken a gun in his hand, merely that 
there should be a decent bit of shooting when his guest arrived. 

“ And he will say to me, only yesterday,” observed Ham- 
ish, confidentially — “ it wass yesterday itself he wass saying 
to me, ‘ Hamish, when Mr. Ogilvie comes here, it will be 
only six days or seven days he will be able to stop, and you 
will try to get him two or three stags. And, Hamish ’ — this 
is what he will say to me — ‘ you will pay no heed to me, for 
I hef plenty of the shooting whatever, from the one year’s end 
to the other year’s end, and it is Mr. Ogilvie you will look 
afcer.’ And you do not mind the rain, sir ? It is fine warm 
clothes you have got on — fine woollen clothes you have, and 
what harm will a shower do ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t mind the rain, so long as I can keep mov- 
ing — that’s the fact, Hamish,” replied Mr. Ogilvie ; “ but I 
don’t like lying in wet heather for an hour at a stretch. And 
I don’t care how few birds there are, there will be plenty to 
keep us walking. So you remember me, after all, Hamish ?” 

“ Oh ay, sir,” said Hamish, with a demure twinkle in his 
eye. “ I mind fine the time you will fall into the water off 
the rock in Loch na Keal.” 

“ There, now,” exclaimed Mr. Ogilvie. “ That is precisely 
what I don’t see the fun of doing, now that I have got to 
man’s estate, and have a wholesome fear of killing myself. 
Do you think I would lie down now on wet sea-weed, and get 
slowly soaked through with the rain for a whole hour, on the 
chance of a seal coming on the other side of the rock ? Of 
Course when I tried to get up I was as stiff as a stone. I 
could not have lifted the rifle if a hundred seals had been 
there. And it was no wonder at all I slipped down into the 
water.” 

“But the sea-water,” said Hamish, gravely ; “ there will 
no harm come to you of the sea-water.” 

“ I want to have as little as possible of either sea-water 
or rain-water,” said Mr. Ogilvie, with decision, “ I believe 
Macleod is half an otter himself.” 

Hamish did not like this, but he only said, respectfully. 

“I do not think Sir Keith is afraid of a shower of rain 
whatever.” 

These gloomy anticipations were surely uncalled for ; for 
during the whole of the past week the Western Isles had 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


1 1 I 

basked in uninterrupted sunlight, with blue skies over the 
fair blue seas, and a resinous warmth exhaling from the 
lonely moors. But all the same, next morning broke as if 
Mr. Ogilvie’s forebodings were only too likely to be realized. 
The sea was leaden-hued and apparently still, though the 
booming of the Atlantic swell into the great caverns could 
be heard ; Staffa, and Lunga, and the Dutchman were of x 
dismal black ; the brighter colors of Ulva and Colonsay 
seemed coldly gray and green ; and heavy banks of cloud la) 
along the land, running out to Ru-Treshanish. The noise of 
the stream rushing down through the fir-wood close to the 
castle seemed louder than usual, as if rain had fallen during 
the night. It was rather cold, too : all that Lady Macleod 
and Janet could say failed to raise the spirits of their guest. 

But when Macleod — dressed in his homespun tartan of 
yellow and black — came round from the kennels with the 
dogs, and Hamish, and the tall red-headed lad Sandy, it ap- 
peared that they considered this to be rather a fine day than 
otherwise, and were eager to be off. 

“ Come along, Ogilvie.” Macleod cried, as he gave his 
fiiend’s gun to Sandy, but shouldered his own. “ Sorry we 
haven’t a dog-cart to drive you to the moor, but it is not far 
off.' 

; I think a cigar in the library would be the best thing 
for a morning like this,” said Ogilvie, rather gloomily, as he 
put up the collar of his shooting-jacket, for a drop or two of 
rain had fallen. 

“ Nonsense, man ! the first bird you kill will cheer you 
up.” 

Macleod was right; they had just passed through the 
wood of young larches close to Castle Dare, and were ascend- 
ing a rough stone road that led by the side of a deep glen, 
when a sudden whir close by them startled the silence of this 
gloomy morning. In an instant Macleod had whipped his 
gun from his shoulder and thrust it into Ogilvie’s hands. By 
tire tune the young man had full-cocked the right barrel and 
taken a quick aim, the bird was half way across the valley ; 
but ail the same he fired. For another second the bird con- 
tinued its flight, but in a slightly irregular fashion ; then 
down it went like a stone into the heather on the opposite 
side of the chasm. 

u Well done, sir!” cried old Hamish. 

“ Bravo ! ” called out Macleod. 

u It was a grand long shot ! ” said Sandy, as he unslipped 


112 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


the sagacious old retriever, and sent her down into the glen, 

They had scarcely spoken when another dark object, 
looking to the startled eye as if it were the size of a house, 
sprang from the heather close by, and went off like an arrow, 
uttering a succession of sharp crovvings. Why did not he 
fire ? Then they saw him in wild despair whip clown the gun, 
full-cock the left barrel, and put it up again. The bird was 
just disappearing over a crest of rising ground, and as Ogil 
ive fired he disappeared altogether. 

“ He’s down, sir ! ” cried Hamish, in great excitement. 

“ I don’t think so,” Ogilvie answered, with a doubtful a.r 
on his face, but with a bright gladness in his eyes all the 
same. 

“ He’s down, sir,” Hamish reasserted. “ Come away 
Sandy, with the dog ! ” he shouted to the red-headed lad, who 
had gone down into the glen to help Nell in her researches. 
By this time they saw that Sandy was recrossing the burn 
with the grouse in his hand, Nell following him contentedly. 
They whistled, and again whistled ; but Nell considered that 
her task had been accomplished, and alternately looked at 
them and up at her immediate master, However, the tall 
lad, probably considering that the whistling was meant as much 
for him as for the retriever, sprang up the side of the glen in 
a miraculous fashion, catching here and there by a bunch of 
heather or the stump of a young larch, and presently he had 
rejoined the party. 

“ Take time, sir,” said he. “Take time. Maybe there 
is more of them about here. And the other one, I marked 
him down from the other side. We will get him ferry well.” 

They found nothing, however, until they had got to the 
other side of the hill, where Nell speedily made herself mis- 
tress of the other bird — a fine young cock grouse, plump 
and in splendid plumage. 

“ And what do you think of the morning now, Ogilvie ? * 
Macleod asked. 

“ Oh, I dare say it will clear,” said he, shyly ; and he en- 
deavored to make light of Hamish’s assertions that they were 
“ ferry pretty shots — ferry good shots ; and it was always a 
right thing to put cartridges in the barrels at the door of a 
Louse, for no one could tell what might be close to the house ; 
and he was sure that Mr. Ogilvie had not forgotten the use 
of a gun since he went away from the hills to live in Eng- 
land.” 

- u But look here, Macleod,” Mr. Ogilvie said ; “ why did 


MACLEOD OF FA A E. 


1 *3 


not you fire yourself ? ” — he was very properly surprised ; for 
the most generous and self-denying of men are apt to claim 
their rights when a grouse gets up to their siae. 

“ Oh,” said Macieod simply, “ I wanted you to have a 
shot.” 

And indeed all through the day he was obviously far more 
concerned about Ogilvie’s shooting than his own. He took 
all the hardest work on himself — taking the outside beat, foi 
example, if there w r as a bit of unpromising ground to be got 
over. When one or other of the dogs suddenly showed by 
its uplifted fore-paw, its rigid tail, and its slow, cautious, tin id 
look round for help and encourage ment that there was some- 
thing ahead of more importance than a lark, Macieod would 
run all the risks of waiting to give Ogilvie time to come up. 
If a hare ran across with any chance of coming within shot 
of Ogilvie, Macieod let her go by unscathed. And the young 
gentleman from the South knew' enough about shooting to 
understand how he w r as being favored both by his host and 
— what was a more unlikely thing — by Hamish. 

He was shooting very well, too ; and his spirits rose and 
rose until the lowering day was forgotten altogether. 

“ We are in for a soaker this time ! ” he cried, quite cheer- 
fully, looking around at one moment. 

All this lonely world of olive greens and browms had 
grow n strangely dark. Even the hum of flies — the only sound 
audible in these high solitudes away from the sea— seemed 
stilled; and a cold wind began to blow over from Ben-an- 
Sloich. The plain of the valley in front of them began to 
fade from view’; then they found themselves enveloped in a 
clammy fog, that settled on their clothes and hung about 
their eyelids and beard, while w r ater began to run down the 
barrels of their guns. The wind blew harder and harder: 
presently they seemed to spring out of the darkness; and, 
turning, they found that the cloud had sw r ept onward toward 
the sea, leaving the rocks on the nearest hill-side all glitter- 
ing wet in the brief burst of sunlight. It was but a glimmer. 
Heavier clouds came sweeping over ; dowmright rain began 
to pour. But Ogilvie kept manfully to his work. He climbed 
over the stone walls, gripping on w r ith his wet hands. He 
splashed through the boggy land, paying no attention to his 
footsteps. And at last he got to following Macieod' s plan qf 
crossing a burn, which w r as merely to - wade through the foam- 
ing brown w r ater instead of looking out for big stones. By 
this time the letters in his breast pocket were a mass of pulp 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


114 

“Look here, Macleod,” said lie, with the rain tunning 
down his face, “ [ can’t tell the difference between one bird 
and another, If I shoot a partridge it isn’t my fault.” 

“ All right,” said Macleod. “ If a partridge is fool enough, 
to be up here, it deserves it.” 

Just at this moment Mr. Ogilvie suddenly threw up his 
hands and his gun, as if to protect his face. An extraordi* 
nary object — a winged object, apparently without a tail, a 
whirring bunch of loose gray feathers, a creature resembling 
no known fowl — had been put up by one of the clogs, and ii 
had flown direct at Ogilvie’s head. It passed him at about 
half a yard’s distance. 

“ W hat in all the world is that ? ” he cried, jumping round 
to have a look at it. 

“ Why,” said Macleod, who was roaring with laughter, 
‘ it is a baby blackcock, just out of the shell, I should think,” 

A sudden noise behind him caused him to, wheel round, 
and Instinctively he put up his gun. He took it down again. 

“ That is the old hen,” said he ; “ we’ll leave her to look 
after her chicks. Hamish, get in the dogs, or they’ll be for 
eating some of those young ones. And you, Sandy, where 
was it you left the basket? We will go for our splendid ban- 
quet now, Ogilvie.” 

That was an odd-looking party that by and by might have 
been seen crouching under the lee of a stone wall with a small 
brook running by their feet. They had taken down wet stones 
for seats ; and these were somewhat insecurely fixed on the 
steep bank. But neither the rain, nor the gloom, nor the 
loneliness of the silent moors seemed to have damped their 
spirits much. 

“It really is awfully kind of you, Ogilvie,” Macleod said, 
as he threw half a sandwich to the old black retriever, “ to 
take pity on a solitary fellow like myself. You can’t tell how 
glad I was to see you on the bridge of the steamer. And 
now that you have taken all the trouble to come to this place, 
and have taken your chance of our poor shooting, this is the 
sort of day you get ! ” 

“ My dear fellow,” said Mr. Ogilvie, who did not refuse to 
have his tumbler replenished by the attentive Hamish, “ it is 
quite the other way. I consider myself precious lucky. I 
consider the shooting firstrate ; and it isn’t every fellow 
would deliberately hand the whole thing over to his friend, as 
you have been doing all day. And I suppose bad weather 
is as bad elsewhere as it is here.” 


MA Cl. r.OD OF DARE . : , 5 

Macleod was carelessly filling his pipe, and obviously 
thinking of something very different. 

“ Man, Ogilvie,” he said, in a burst of confidence, “ I 
never knew before how fearfully lonely a life we lead here. 
If we were out on one of the Treshanish Islands, with noth- 
ing round us but skarts and gulls, we could scarcely be lone- 
lier. And I have been thinking all the morning what this 
must look i ike to you.” 

He glanced round — at the sombre browns and greens of 
the solitary moorland, at the black rocks jutting out here and 
there from the scant grass, at the silent and gloomy hills and 
the overhanging clouds. 

“ I have been thinking of the beautiful places we saw in 
London, and the crowds of people, the constant change, and 
amusement, and life. And I shouldn't wonder if you packed 
up your traps to-morrow morning and fled.” 

“ My dear boy,” observed Mr. Ogilvie, confidently, 
“you are giving me credit for avast amount of sentimenv I 
haven’t got it. I don’t know what it is. But I know when I 
am jolly well off. I know when I am in good quarters, with 
good shooting, and with a good sort of chap to go about 
with. As for London — bah ! I rather think you got your 
eyes dazzled for a minute, Macleod. You weren’t long 
enough there to find it out. And wouldn’t you get precious 
tired of big dinners, and garden-parties, and all that stuff, 
after a time ? Macleod, do you mean to tell me you ever 
saw anything at Lady Beauregard’s as fine as that?” 

And he pointed to a goodly show of birds,- with a hare or 
two, that Sandy had taken out of the bag, so as to count 
them. 

“ Of course,” said thiswise young man, “there is one 
case in which that London life is all very well. If a man is 
awful spoons on a girl, then, of course, he can trot after her 
from house to house, and walk his feet off in the Park. I re- 
member a fellow saying a very clever thing about the reasons 
that took a man into society. What was it, now? Let me 
see. Jt was either to look out for a wife, or— or — ” 

Mr. Ogilvie was trying to recollect the epigram and to 
light a wax match at the same time, and he failed in both. 

“ Well,” said he, “ I won’t spoil it ; but don’t you believe 
that any one you met in London wouldn’t be precious glad to 
change places with us at this moment ? ” 

Anyone? What was the situation ? Pouring rain, leaden 
skies, the gloomy solitude of the high moors, the sound of 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


xi6 

roaring waters. And here they were crouching under a stone 
wall, with their dripping fingers lighting match after match 
for their damp pipes, with not a few midges in the moist and 
clammy air, and with a faint halo of steam plainly arising 
from the leather of their boots. When Fionaghal the Fail 
Stranger came from over the blue seas to her new home, was 
this the picture of Highland life that was presented to her ? 

14 Lady Beauregard, for example ? ” said Macleod. 

“ Oil, I am not talking about women,” observed the sa- 
gacious boy ; “ I never could make out a woman’s notions 
about any thing. I dare say they like London life well 
enough, for they can show off their shoulders and their dia- 
monds.” 

“ Ogilvie,” Macleod said, with a sudden earnestness, 44 1 
am fretting my heart out here— that is the fact. If it were 
not for the poor old mother — and Janet — but I will tell /ou 
another time.” 

He got up on his feet, and took his gun from Sandy 
His companion — wondering not a little, but saying nothing — 
did likewise. Was this the man who had always seemed 
rather proud of his hard life on the hills? who had regarded 
the idleness and effeminacy of town life with something of an 
unexpressed scorn ? A young fellow in robust health and 
splendid spirits — an eager sportsman and an acurate shot — 
out for his first shooting-day of the year: was it intelligible 
that he should be visited by vague sentimental regrets for 
London drawing-rooms and vapid talk ? The getting up of a 
snipe interrupted these speculations; Ogilvie blazed away, 
missing with both barrels ; Macleod, who had been patiently 
watting to see the effect of the shots, then put up his gun, 
and presently the bird came tumbling down, some fifty yards 
off. 

K You haven’t warmed to it yet,” Macleod said, charitably. 
“The first half hour after luncheon a man always shpots 
badly.” 

“ Especially when his clothes are glued to his skin fiorn 
head to foot,” said Ogilvie. 

“ Vou will soon walk some heat into yourself.” 

And again they went on, Macleod pursuing the same tac- 
tics so that his companion had the cream of the shooting. 
Despite the continued soaking rain, Ogilvie’s spirits seemed 
to become more and more buoyant, lie was shooting cap- 
’tally \ one very long shot he made, bringing down an old 


MA CLEOD OF DARE. 1 1 7 

blackcock with a thump on the heather, causing Hamish to 
exclaim, — 

44 Well done, sir ! It is a glass of whiskey you will deserve 
for that shot.” 

Whereupon Mr. Ogilvie stopped and modestly hinted 
that he would accept of at least a moiety of the proffered re- 
ward. 

44 Do you know, Hamish,” said he, “ that it is the greatest 
comfort in the world to get wet right through, for you know 
you can’t be worse, and it gives you no trouble.” 

44 And a whole glass will do you no harm, sir,” shrewdly 
observed Hamish. 

“ Not in the clouds.” 

44 The what, sir ? ” 

44 The clouds. Don’t you consider we are going shooting 
through clouds ? ” 

44 There will be a snipe or two down here, sir,” Slid 
Hamish, moving on ; for he could not understand conun- 
drums, especially conundrums in English. 

The day remained of this moist character to the end ; but 
they had plenty of sport, and they had a heavy bag on their 
return to Castle Dare. Macleod was rather silent on the way 
home. Ogilvie was still at a loss to know why his friend 
.should have taken this sudden dislike to living in a place he 
had lived in all his life. Nor could he understand why Mac- 
leod should have deliberately surrendered to him the chance 
of bagging the brace of* grouse that got up by the side of 
the road. It was scarcely, he considered, within the possi- 
bilities of human nature. 


CHAPTER XV. 

A CONFESSION. 

And once again the big dining-hall of Castle Dare was 
ablaze with candles ; and Janet was there, gravely listening 
to the garrulous talk of the boy-officer; and Keith Macleod, 
in his dress tartan ; and the noble-looking old lady at the 
head of the table, who more than once expressed to hex 
guest, in that sweetly modulated and gracious voice of hers, 


MACLEOD OF DA HE. 


1 18 

how sorry she was he had encountered so bad a day for the 
first day of his visit. 

“It is different with Keith,” said she, “ for he is used to 
be out in all weathers. He has been brought up to live out 
of doors. 

“ Rut you know, auntie,” said Janet Macleod, “a soldier 
is much of the same thing. Did you ever hear of a soldier 
with an umbrella ? ” 

“All I know is,” remarked Mr. Ogilvie — who, in his 
smart evening dress, and with his face flushed into a rosy 
warmth after the cold and the wet, did not look particularly 
miserable — “ that I don’t remember ever enjoying myself 
so much in one day. But the fact is, Lady Macleod, your 
son gave me all the shooting; and Hamish was sounding my 
praises all day long, so that I almost got to think 1 could 
shoot the birds without putting up the gun at all ; and when 
I made a frightfu. Dad miss, everybody declared the bird was 
dead round the other side of the hill.” 

“ And indeed you were not making many misses,” Mac- 
leod said. “ But we will try your nerve, Ogilvie, with a stag 
or two, I hope.” 

“ I am on for anything. What with ITamish’s flattery 
and the luck I had to-day, I begin to believe I could bag a 
brace of tigers if they were coming at me fifty miles an hour.” 

Dinner over, and Donald having played his best (no doubt 
he had learned that the stranger was an officer in the Ninety- 
third), the ladies left the dining-hall,’ and presently Macleod 
proposed to his friend that they should go into the library 
and have a smoke. Ogilvie was nothing loath. They went 
into the odd little room, with its guns and rods and stuffed 
birds, and, lying prominently on the writing-table, a valuable 
little heap of dressed otter-skins. Although the night was 
scarcely cold enough to demand it, there was a log of wood 
burning in the fireplace; there were two easy-ch airs, low and 
roomy; and on the mantelpiece were some glasses, and a big 
black broad-bottomed bottle, such as used to carry the still 
vintages of Champagne even into the remote wilds of the 
Highlands, before the art of making sparkling wines had 
been discovered. Mr. Ogilvie lit a cigar, stretched out his 
feet towards the blazing log, and rubbed his hands, which 
were not as white as usual. 

“ You are a lucky fellow, Macleod,” said he, “ and you 
don’t know it. You have every thing about you here to make 
life enjoyable.” 


\E\ CLEOD Of DARE. 


”9 

M And I feel like a slave tied to a galley oar.” said he, 
quickly. “ ] try to hide it from the mother — for it would 
break her heart — and from Janet too; but ever}' morning I 
rise, the dismalness of being alone here — of being caged up 
alone — eats more and more into my heart. When I look at 
you, Ogilvie— to-morrow morning you could go spinning off 
to any quarter you liked, to see any one you wanted to see 

“ Macleod,” said his companion, looking up, and yet 
speaking rather slowly and timidly, “ if I were to say what 
would naturally occur to anyone — you won’t be offended? 
What you have been telling me is absurd, unnatural, impos- 
sible, unless there is a woman in the case.” 

“ And what then ? ” Macleod said, quickly, as he regarded 
his friend with a watchful eye, “ You have guessed ? ” 

“ Yes,” said the other : “ Gertrude White. 

Macleod was silent for a second or two. Then he sat 
down. 

“ I scarcely care who knows it now,” said he > absently 
“ so long as I can’t fight it out of my own mind. I tried not 
to know it. I tried not to believe it. I argued with myself, 
laughed at myself, invented a hundred explanations of this 
cruel thing that was gnawing at my heart and giving me no 
peace night or day. Why, man, Ogilvie, I have read * Pen- 
dennis ! ’ Would you think it possible that any one who has 
read ‘ Pendennis ’ could ever fall in love with an actress ? ” 

He jumped to his feet again, walked up and down for a 
second or two, twisting the while a bit of casting-line round 
his finger so that it threatened to cut into the flesh. 

u But I will tell you now, Ogilvie — now that I am speak- 
ing to any one about it/’ said 1 e — and he spoke in a rapid, 
deep, earnest voice, obviously not caring much what his 
companion might think, so that he could relieve his overbur- 
dened mind — “ that it was not any actress 1 fell in love with. 
I never saw her in a theatre but that once. I hated the 
theatre whenever I thought of her in it. I dared scarcely 
open a newspaper, lest I should see her name. I turned 
away from the posters in the streets : when I happened by 
some accident to see her publicly paraded that way, I shud- 
dered all through — with shame, I think ; and I got to look 
on her father as a sort of devil that had been allowed to 
drive about that beautiful creature in vile chains. Oh, I can- 
not tell you 1 When I have heard him talking away in that 
infernal, cold, precise way about her duties to her art, and 


20 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


insisting that she should have no sentiments oi feelings o 1 
her own, and that she should simply use every emotion as a 
bit of something to impose on the public — a bit of her trade, 
an exposure of her own feelings to make people clap their 
hands — I have sat still and wondered at myself that I did 
not jump up and catch him by the throat, and shake the life 
out of his miserable body.*' 

“ You have cut your hand, Macleod.” 

He shook a drop or two of blood off. 

“ Why, Ogilvie, when I saw you on the bridge of the 
steamer, I nearly went mad with delight. I said to myself, 
* Here is some one who has seen her and spoken to her, who 
will know when I tell him/ And now that I am telling 
you of it, Ogilvie, you will se-e — you will understand — that it 
is not any actress I have fallen in love with — it was not the 
fascination of an actress at all, but the fascination of the 
woman herself ; the fascination of her voice, and her sweet 
ways, and the very way she walked, too, and the tenderness 
of her heart. There was a sort of wonder about her what- 
ever she did or said was so beautiful, and simple, and sweet ! 
And day after day I said to myself that my interest in this 
beautiful woman was nothing. Some one told me there had 
been rumors : I laughed. Could any one suppose I was go- 
ing to play Pendennis over again ? And then as the time 
came for me to leave, I was glad, and I was miserable at the 
same time. I despised myself for being miserable. And 
then I said to myself, ‘This stupid misery is only the fancy 
of a boy. Wait till you get back to Castle Dare, and the 
rough seas, and the hard work of the stalking. There is no 
sickness and sentiment on the side of Ben-an-Sloich/ And 
so 1 was glad to come to Castle Dare, and to see the old 
mother, and Janet, and Hamish ; and the sound of the pipes, 
Ogilvie — when I heard them away in the steamer, that 
brought tears to my eyes ; and I said to myself, * Now you 
are at home again, and there will be uo more nonsense of 
idle thinking.’ And what has it come to ? I would give 
everything I possess in the world to see her face once more 
— ay, to be in the same town where she is. I read the 
papers, trying to find out where she is. Morning and night 
it is the same — a fire, burning and burning, of impatience, 
and misery’, and a craving just to see her face and hear her 
speak.” 

Ogilvie did not know what to say. There was something 
an this passionate confession — in the cry wrung from a strong 


MACLEOD OF DARE. xai 

man, and in the rude eloquence that here and there burs 4 
from him — that altogether drove ordinary words of counsel 
or consolation out of the young man’s mind. 

“ You have been hard hit, Macleod,” he said, with some 
earnestness, 

“That is just it,” Macleod said, almost bitterly. “You 
fire at a bird. You think you have missed him. He sails 
away as if there was nothing the matter, and the rest of the 
covey no doubt think he is as well as any one of them. But 
suddenly you see there is something wrong. He gets apart 
from the others ; he towers ; then down he comes, as dead 
as a stone. You did not guess anything of this in London ? ” 
“Well,” said Ogilvie, rather inclined to beat about the 
bush, “ I thought you were paying her a good deal of atten- 
tion. But then — she is very popular, you know, and receives 
a good deal of attention ; and — and the fact is, she is an un- 
commonly pretty girl, and 1 thought you were flirting a bit 
with her, but nothing more than that. I had no idea it was 
something more serious than that.” 

“ Ay,” Macleod said, “if I myself had only known ! If it 
was a plunge — as people talk about falling in love with a 
woman — why, the next morning 1 would have shaken myself 
free of it, as a Newfoundland dog shakes himself free 
of the water. But a fever, a madness, that slowly gains 
on you — and you look around and say it is nothing, but day 
after day it burns more and more. And it is no longer 
something that you can look at apart from yourself — it is your 
very self; and sometimes, Ogilvie, I wonder whether it is all 
true, or whether it is mad I am altogether. Newcastle — do 
you know Newcastle ? ” * 

“ I have passed through it, of course,” his companion 
said, more and more amazed at the vehemence of his speech. 

“ It is there she is now — I have seen it in the papers, 
and it is Newcastle — Newcastle — Newcastle — I am thinking 
of from morning till night, and if I could only see one of the 
streets of it I should be glad. They say it is smoky and 
grimy ; I should be breathing sunlight if I lived in the most 
squalid of all its houses. And they say she is going to Liv- 
erpool, and to Manchester, and to Leeds ; and it is as if my 
very life were being drawn away from me. 1 try to think 
what people may be around her ; I try to imagin'* what she is 
doing at a particular hour of the day; and I feel as if I were 
shut away in an island in the middle of the Atlantic, with 


•12 2 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


nothing but the sound of the waves around my ears. Ogilvie, 
it is enough to drive a man out of his senses.’ 5 

“ But, look here, Macleod,” said Ogilvie, pulling himself 
together ; for it was hard to resist the influence of this vehe- 
ment and uncontrollable passion — “ look here, mar ; why 
don’t you think of it in cold blood ? Do you expect me to 
sympathize with you as a friend ? Or would you like to know 
what any ordinary man of the world would think of the whole 
case?” 

“ Don’t give me your advice, Ogilvie,” said he, untwining 
and throwing away the bit of casting-line that had cut his 
finger. “ It is far beyond that. Let me talk to you — that is 
all. I should have gone mad in another week, if I had had 
no one to speak to ; and as it is, what better am I than mad ? 
It is not anything to be analyzed and cured : it is my very 
self ; and what have I become ? ” 

“ But look here* Macleod — I want to ask you a question : 
would you marry her ? ” 

The common-sense of the younger man was re* asserting 
itself. This was what any one — looking at the whole situa- 
ation from the Aldershot point of view — would at the outset 
demand ? But if Macleod had known all that was implied 
in the question, it is probable that a friendship that had ex- 
isted from boyhood would then and there have been severed. 
He took it that Ogilvie was merely referring to the thousand 
and one obstacles that lay between him and that obvious and 
natural goal. 

“Marry her!” he exclaimed. “Yes, you are right to 
look at it in that way — to think of what it will all lead to. 
When I look forward, I see nothing but a maze of impossi- 
billities and trouble. One might as well have fallen in love 
with one of the Roman maidens in the Temple of Vesta. 
She is a white slave. She is a sacrifice to the monstrous 
theories of that bloodless old pagan, her father. And then 
she is courted and flattered on all sides ; she lives in a smoke 
of incense : do you think, even supposing that all other diffi- 
culties were removed — that she cared for no one else, that 
she were to care for me, that the influence of her father was 
gone — do you think she u r ould surrender all the admiration 
she provokes and the excitement of the life she leads, tc 
come and live in a dungeon in the Highlands ? A single 
day like to-day would kill her, she is so fine and delicate — 
like a rose leaf, 1 have often thought. No, no, Ogilvie, 1 
have thought of it every way. It is l : ke a riddle that you 


MA CLE OH OF DA A’F. I2 j 

twist and twist about to try and get the answer ; and I can 
get no answer at all, unless wishing that I had never been 
born. And perhaps that would have been better.” 

“ You take too gloomy a view of it, Macleod,” said Ogil- 
vie. “ For one thing, look at the common-sense of the mat- 
ter. Suppose that she is very ambitious to succeed in her 
profession, that is all very well ; but, mind you, it is a very 
hard life. And if you put before her the chance of being 
styled Lady Macleod — well, I may be wrong, but I should 
say that would count for something. I haven’t known many 
actresses myself — ” 

“ That is idle taiK,” Macleod said ; and then he added, 
proudly, “ You do not know this woman as I know her.” 

He put aside his pipe ; but in truth he had never lit it. 

“ Come,” said he, with a tired look, “ I have bored you 
enough. You won’t mind, Ogilvie ? The whole of the day 
I was saying to myself that I would keep all this thing to my- 
self, if my heart burst over it ; but you see I could not do it, 
and I have made you the victim, after all. And we will go 
into the drawing-room now ; and we will have a song. And 
that was a very good song you sang one night in London, 
Ogilvie — it was about 1 Death’s black wine ’ — and do you 
think you could sing us that song to-night ? ” 

Ogilvie looked at him. 

“ I don’t know what you mean by the way you are talk- 
ing, Macleod,” said he. 

“ Oh,” said he, with a laugh that did not sound quite 
natural, “ have you forgotten it ? Well, then, Janet will sing 
us another song — that is, ‘ Farewell, Manchester.’ And we 
will go to bed soon to-night, for I have not been having much 
sleep lately. But it is a good song — it is a song you do not 
easily forget — that about * Death’s black wine.’ ” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

REBELLION. 

And where was she now — that strange creature who had 
bewildered and blinded his eyes and so sorely stricken hi® 
heart ? It was, perhaps, not the least part of his trouble 


J24 


MACLEOD OF DARK. 


that all his passionate yearning to see her, and all his think- 
ing about her and the scenes in which he had met her, 
seemed unable to conjure up any satisfactory vision of her. 
The longing of his heart went out from him to meet— a phan- 
tom. She appeared before him in a hundred shapes, now 
one, now the other ; but all possessed with a terrible fascina- 
tion from which it was in vain for him to try to flee. 

Which was she, then — the pale, and sensitive, and 
tiiOughtful-e) ed girl who listened with such intense interest 
to the gloomy tales of the Northern seas ; who was so fine* 
and perfect, and delicate ; who walked so gracefully and 
smiled so sweetly; the timid and gentle companion and 
friend ? 

Or the wild coquette, with her arch, shy ways, and her 
serious laughing, and her befooling of the poor stupid lover ? 
He could hear her laugh now ; he could see her feed her 
canary from her own lips. Where was the old mother whom 
that madcap girl teased and petted and delighted ? 

Or was not this she — the calm and gracious woman who 
received as a matter of right the multitude of attentions that 
all men- — and women too — were glad to pay her ? The air fine 
about her; the south winds fanning her cheek ; the day long, 
and balmy, and clear. The white-sailed boats glide slowly 
through the water ; there is a sound of music and of gentle 
talk ; a butterfly comes fluttering over the blue summer seas. 
And then there is a murmuring refrain in the lapping of the 
waves : Rose Leaf / Rose Leaf / what faint wifirf will carry 
you away to the south ? 

Or this audacious Duchess of Devonshire, with the flash- 
ing black eyes, and a saucy smile on her lips ? She knows 
that every one regards her ; but what of that ? Aw'ay she 
goes through the brilliant throng with that young Highland 
officer, with glowing light and gay costumes and joyous 
music all around her. What do you think of her, you poor 
clown, standing all alone and melancholy, w r ith your cap and 
bells ? Has she pierced your heart too with a flash of the 
saucy black eyes ? 

But there is still another vision ; and perhaps this solitary 
dreamer, who has no eyes for the great slopes of Ben-an- 
Sloich that stretch into the clouds, and no ears for the soft 
calling of the sea-birds as they wheel over his head, tries 
hardest to fix this one in his memory. Here she is the neat 
and watchful house-mistress, with all things bright and shi- 
ning around her ; and she appears, too, as the meek daughter 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


I2 5 

and the -kind and caressing sister. Is it not hard that she 
should be torn fiom this quiet little haven of domestic duties 
and family affection to be bound hand and foot in the chains 
of an, and ffung into the arena to amuse that great ghoul- 
faced thing, the public ? The white slave does not complain. 
While as yet she may, she presides over the cheerful table ; 
and the beautiful small hands are helpful, and that light 
morning costume is a wonder of simplicity and grace. And 
then the garden, and the soft summer air, and the pretty 
ways of the two sisters : why should not this simple, homely, 
beautiful life last forever, if only the summer and the roses 
would last forever ? 

But suppose now that we turn aside from these fanciful 
pictures of Macleod’s and take a more commonplace one of 
which he could have no notion whatever. It is night — a wet 
and dismal night — and a four-wheeled cab is jolting along 
through the dark and almost deserted thoroughfares of Man- 
chester. Miss Gertrude White is in the cab, and the truth is 
that she is in a thorough bad temper. Whether it was that 
the unseemly scufffe that took place in the gallery during the 
performance, or whether it is that the streets of Manchester, 
in the midst of rain and after midnight are not inspiriting, 
or whether it is merely that she has got a headache, it is 
certain that Miss White is in an ill-humor, and that she has 
not spoken a word to her maid, her only companion, since 
together they left the theatre. At length the cab 6tops op- 
posite a hotel, which is apparently closed for the night. They 
get out, cross the muddy pavements under the glare of a gas- 
lamp ; after some delay get into the hotel ; pass through a 
dimly lit and empty corridor ; and then Miss White bids her 
maid good-night and opens the door of a small parlor. 

Here there is a more cheerful scene. There is a fire in 
the room ; and there is supper laid on the table ; while Mr. 
Septimus White, with his feet on the fender and his back 
turned to the lamp, is seated in an easy-chair, and holding 
up a book to the light so that the pages almost touch his 
gold-rimmed spectacles. Miss White sits down on the sofa 
on the dark side of the room. She has made no response to 
his greeting of “ Well, Gerty ? ” 

At length Mr. White becomes aware that his daughter is 
sitting there with her things on, and he turns from his book 
to her. 

“ Well, Gerty,” he repeats, w aren't you going to hare 
some supper ? ” 


MACLEOD OF DAK R, 


1*6 


“ No, thank you,” she says. 

“ Come, come,” he remonstrates, “ that won’t do. You 
must have some supper. Shall Jane get you a cup of tea ? ” 

“ I don’t suppose there is any one up below; besides, I 
don’t want it,” says Miss White, rather wearily. 

“ What is the matter ? ” 

“ Nothing,” she answers ; and then she looks at the man* 
telpiece. “ No letter from Carry ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Well, I hope you won’t make her an actress, papa,” 
observes Miss White, with no relevance, but with consider- 
able sharpness in her tone. 

In fact, this remark was so unexpected and uncalled-for 
that Mr. White suddenly put his book down on his knee, 
and turned his gold spectacles full on his daughter’s face. 

“ I will beg you to remember, Gerty,” he remarked, with 
some dignity, “ that I did not make you an actress, if that 
is w'hat you imply. If it had not been entirely your wish, I 
should never have encouraged you ; and I think it shows 
great ingratitude, not only to me but to the public also, that 
when you have succeeded in obtaining a position such as 
any woman in the country might envy, you treat your good 
*ortune with indifference, and show nothing but discontent. 

cannot tell what has come over you of late. You ought 
certainly to be the last to say anything against a profession 
that has gained for you such a large share of public favor — ” 

“ Public favor ! ” she said, with a bitter laugh. “ Who 
is the favorite of the public in this very town ? Why, the 
girl who plays in that farce — who smokes a cigarette, and 
walks round the stage like a man, and dances a breakdown. 
Why wasn’t I taught to dance breakdowns ? ” 

Her father was deeply vexed ; for this was not the first 
time she had dropped small rebellious hints. And if this 1 
feeling grew, she might come to question his most cherished j 
theories. 

“ I should think you were jealous of that girl,” said he, 
petulantly, “if it were not too ridiculous. You ought to re- 
member that she is an established favorite here. She has 
amused these people year after year; they look on her as an 
old friend ; they are grateful to her. The means she use9 
to make people laugh may not meet with your approval ; but 
she knows her own b isiness, doubtless ; and she succeeds in 
her own way.” 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


~\ 


t2 7 


“ Ah, well,” said Miss White, as she put aside her bon- 
net, “ I hope you won’t bring up Carry to this sort of life.” 

“ To what sort of life ? ” her father exclaimed, angrily, 
" Haven’t you everything that can make life pleasant? I 
don’t know what more you want. You have not a single 
care. You are petted and caressed wherever you go. And 
you ought to have the delight of knowing that the further 
you advance in your art the further rewards are in store for 
you. The way is clear before you. You have youth and 
strength ; and the public is only too anxious to applaud 
whatever you undertake. And yet you complain of your 
manner of life.” 

“ It isn’t the life of a human being at all,” she said, bold- 
ly — but perhaps it was only her headache, or her weariness, 
or her illliumor, that drove her to this rebellion ; “ it is the 
cutting one’s self off from everything that makes life worth 
having. It is a continual degradation — the exhibition of 
feelings that ought to be a woman’s most sacred and secret 
possession. And what will the end of it be ? Already I be- 
gin to think I don’t know what I am. I have to sympathize 
with so many characters — I have to be so many different 
people — that I don’t quite know what my own character is, 
or if I have any at all ” 

Her father was staring at her in amazement. What had 
led her into these fantastic notions ? While she was profes- 
sing that her ambition to become a great and famous actress 
was the one ruling thought and object of her life, was she 
really envying the poor domestic drudge whom she saw com- 
ing to the theatre to enjoy herself with her fool of a husband, 
having withdrawn for an hour or two from her housekeeping 
books and her squalling children? At all events, Miss White 
left him in no doubt as to her sentiments at that precise mo- 
ment. She talked rapidly, and with a good deal of bitter 
feeling; but it was quite obvious, from the clearness of her 
line of contention, that she had been thinking over the mat- 
ter. And while it was all a prayer that her sister Carry might 
be left to live a natural life, and that she should not be com- 
pelled to exhibit, for gain or applause, emotions which a wo- 
man would naturally lock up in her own heart, it was also a 
bitter protest against her own lot. What was she to become, 
she asked ? A dram-drinker of fictitious sentiment ? A Ten- 
minutes’ Emotionalist ? It was this last phrase that flashed 
in a new light on her father’s bewildered mind. He remem- 
bered if instantly. So that was the source of inoperation ? 


128 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


“ Oh, I see now,” he said, with angry scorn. " You have 
learned your lesson well. A * Ten-minutes’ Emotionalist : * 
I remember. I was wondering who had put such stuff into 
your head.” 

She colored deeply, but said nothing. 
u And so you are taking your notion, as to what sort of 
life you would lead, from a Highland savage — a boor whose 
only occupations are eating and drinking and killirg wild 
animals. A fine guide, truly ! He has had so much expei ience 
in aesthetic matters ! Or is it metapheesics is his hobby ? And 
what, pray, is his notion as to what life should be ? that the 
noblest object of a man’s ambition should be to kill a stag ? 
It was a mistake forHante to let his work eat into his heart ; 
he should have devoted himself to shooting rabbits. And 
Raphael — don’t you think he would have improved his diges- 
tion by giving up pandering to the public taste for pretty 
things, and taking to hunting wild-boars ? that is the theory, 
isn’t it ? Is that the metapheesics you have learned ? ” 

“ You may talk about it,” she said, rather humbly — for 
she knew very well she could not stand against her father in 
argument, especially on a subject that he rather prided him- 
self on having mastered — “ but you are not a woman, and 
you don’t know what a woman feels about such things.” 

“ And since when have you made the discovery? What 
has happened to convince you so suddenly that your profes- 
sional life is a degradation ? ” 

“ Oh,” she said, carelessly, “ I was scarcely thinking of 
myself. Of course I know what lies before me. It was abont 
Carry I spoke to you.” 

“ Carry shall decide for herself, as you did ; and when 
she has done so, I hope she won’t come and blame me the 
first time she gets some ridiculous idea into her head.” 

“ Now, papa, that isn’t fair,” the eldest sister said, in a 
gentler voice. “You know I never blamed you. I only 
showed you that even a popular actress sometimes remem- 
bers that she is a woman. And if she is a woman, you must 
let her have a grumble occasionally.” 

This conciliatory tone smoothed the matter down at once ; 
and Mr. White turned to his book with another recommen- 
dation to his daughter to take some supper and get to bed. 

u I will go now,” she said, rather wearily, as she rose, 
* Good-night, papa — What is that ? ” 
i She was looking at a parcel that lay on a chair. 

* It came for you, to-night. There <vas seven and sis- 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


,29 

pence to pay for extra carriage — it seems to have been for- 
warded from place to place.” 

“ As if I had not enough luggage to carry about with me ! w 
she said. 

But she proceeded to open the parcel all the same, which 
seemed to be very carefully swathed in repeated covers of 
canvas. And presently she uttered a slight exclamation. 
She took up one dark object after another, passing her hand 
over them, and back again, and finally pressing them to her 
cheek. 

“Just look at these, papa — did you ever in all your life 
see anything so beautiful ?” 

She came to a letter, too ; which she hastily tore open and 
read. It was a brief note, in terms of great respect, written 
by Sir Keith Macleod, and begging Miss White’s acceptance 
of a small parcel of otter-skins, which he hoped might be 
made into some article of attire. Moreover, he had asked 
his cousin’s advice on the matter ; and she thought there were 
enough ; but if Miss White, on further inquiry, found she 
would rather have one or two more, he had no doubt that 
within the next month or so he could obtain these also. It 
was a very respectful note. 

But there was no shyness or timidity about the manner of 
Miss White when she spread those skins out along the sofa, 
and again and again took them up to praise their extraordi- 
nary glossiness and softness. 

“ Papa,” she exclaimed, “ it is a present fit for a prince 
to make ! ” 

“ I dare say you will find them useful.” 

“ And whatever is made of them,” said she, with decision, 
“that I shall keep for nyself — it won’t be one of my stage 
properties.” 

Her spirits rose wonderfully. She kept on chatting to 
her father about these lovely skins, and the jacket she would 
have of them. She asked why he was so dull that evening. 
She protested that she would not take any supper unless he 
had some too ; whereupon he had a biscuit and a glass of 
claret, which, at all events, compelled him to lay aside his 
book. And then, when she had finished her supper, she sud- 
denly said, 

“ Now, Pappy dear, I am going to tell you a great secret. 
I am going to change the song in the second act.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” said he ; but he was rather glad to see hei 
come back to the interest of her work. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


* 3 ° 

“ I am,” she said, seriously, “ Would you like to heal 
it?” 

“ You will wake the house up.” 

“ And if the public expect an actress to please them,” she 
said, saucily, “ they must take the consequences of her prac- 
tising/, 

She went to the piano, and opened it. There was a fine 
courage in her manner as she struck the chords and sang the 
opening lines of the gay song : — 

“ ‘Threescore o’ nobles rode up the King’s ha’ 

But bonnie Glenogie’s the flower of them a*, 

Wi’ his milk-white steed and his bonnie black e’e.’ ** 

— but here her voice dropped, and it was almost in a whisper 
that she let the maiden of the song utter the secret wish of 
her heart — 

“ ‘ Glenogie , dear wither, Glenogie for me.* 

“ Of course,” she said, turning round to her father, and 
speaking in a business-like way, though there was a spice of 
proud mischief in her eyes, “ There is a stumbling-block, or 
where would the story be ! Glenogie is poor ; the mother 
will not let her daughter have anything to do with him ; the 
girl takes to her bed with the definite intention of dying.” 

She turned to the piano again. 

“ * There is, Glenogie, a letter for thee, 

Oh, there is, Glenogie, a letter for thee. 

The first line he looked at, a light laugh laughed he ; 

But ere he read through it, tears blinded his e’e.* 

44 How do you like the air, papa ? ” 

Mr. White did not seem over well pleased. He was quite 
aware that his daughter was a very clever young woman ; and 
he did not know what insane idea might have got into her 
head of throwing an allegory at him. 

“The air,” said he, coldly, “ is well enough. But I hope 
you don’t expect an English audience to understand that 
doggerel Scotch.” 

“Glenogie understand it, any way,” said she, blithely, 
and naturally he rode off at once to see his dying sweet- 
heart. 

“ * Pale and wan was she, when Glenogie gaed ben, 

But rosy-red grew she when Glenogie sat down. 

She turned away her head, but the smile W3S in her e’e, 

* Oh , binna feared, milker, l'U maybe no dee . 1 ” 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


M* 

She shut the piano. 

“ Isn’t it charmingly simple and tender, papa ? ” she said, 
vvith the same mischief in her eyes. 

‘ I think it is foolish of you to think of exchanging that 
piece of doggerel — ” 

“ For what ? ” said she, standing in the middle of the 
room. “ For this ? ” 

And therewith she sang these lines — giving an admirable 
builesque imitation of herself, and her own gestures, andhci 
own singing in the part she was then performing : — 

“ The morning bells are swinging, ringing. 

Hail to the day ! 

The birds are winging, singing 
To the golden day — 

To the joyous day — 

The morning bells are swinging, ringing, 

And what do they say ? 

O bring my love to my love ! 

O bring my love to-day » 

O bring my love to my love ! 

\ To be my love alway 1 * ” 

It certainly was cruel to treat poor Mrs. Ross’s home 
made lyrics so ; but Miss White was burlesquing herself as 
well as the song she had to sing. And as her father did not 
know to what lengths this iconoclastic fit might lead her, he 
abruptly bade her good-night and went to bed, no doubt 
hoping that next morning would find the demon exorcised 
from his daughter. 

As for her, she had one more loving look over the skins, 
and then she carefully read through the note that accompa* 
nied them. There was a smile on her face — perhaps of 
pleasure, perhaps of amusement at the simplicity of the lines. 
^ However, she turned aside, and got hold of a small writing- 
desk, which she placed on the table. 

“ ‘ Oh, here is, Glenogie, a letter for thee/ ” 

she hummed to herself, with a rather proud look on her face, 
as she seated herself and opened the desk. 


MACLEOD OF DAKRs 


n* 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“ FHIR A BHATA ! n 

Young Ogilvie had obtained some brief extension of his 
leave, but even that was drawing to a close ; and Macleod 
saw with a secret dread that the hour of his departure was 
fast approaching. And yet he had not victimized the young 
man. After that first burst of confidence he had been spar- 
ing in his references to the trouble that had beset him. Of 
what avail, besides, could Mr. Ogilvie’s counsels be ? Once 
or twice he had ventured to approach the subject with some 
commonplace assurances that there were always difficulties 
in the way of two people getting married, and that they had 
to be overcome with patience and courage. The difficulties 
that Macleod knew of as between himself and that impos- 
sible goal were deeper than any mere obtaining of the con- 
sent of friends or the arrangement of a way of living. From 
the moment that the terrible truth was forced on him he had 
never regarded his case but as quite hopeless ; and yet that 
in no way moderated his consuming desire to see her — to 
hear her speak — even to have correspondence with her. It 
was something that he could send her a parcel of otter-skins. 

But all the same Mr. Ogilvie was in some measure a friend 
of hers. He knew her — he had spoken to her — no doubt 
when he returned to the South he would see her one day o? 
another, and he would surely speak of the visit he had paid to 
Castle Dare. Macleod set about making that visit as pleasant 
as might be, and the weather aided him. The fair heavens 
shone over the windy blue seas ; and the green island ol 
Ulvalay basking in the sunlight, and as the old Umpire, with 
her heavy bows parting the rushing waves, carried them out 
to the west, they could see the black skarts standing on the 
rocks erf Gometra, and clouds of puffins wheeling round the 
dark and lonely pillars of Staffa; while away in the north, 
as they got clear of Treshanish Point, the mountains of Rum 
and of Skye appeared a pale and spectral blue, like ghostly 
shadows at the horizon. And there was no end to the sports 
and pastimes that occupied day after day. On their first ex- 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


*33 

pedition up the lonely corries of Ben-an-Sloich young Ogilvie 
brought down a royal hart — though his hand trembled for 
ten minutes after he pulled the trigger. They shot wild duck 
in Loch Scridain, and seals in Loch-na-Keal, and rock 
pigeons along the face of the honeycombed cliffs of Gribun. 
And what was this new form of sport? They were one day 
being pulled in the gig up a shallow loch in the hope of find- 
ing a brood or two of young mergansers, when Macleod. who 
was seated up at the bow, suddenly called to the man to 
stop. He beckoned to Ogilvie, who went forward and saw, 
quietly moving over the sea-weed, a hideously ugly fish with 
the flat head and sinister eyes of a snake. Macleod picked 
up the boat-hook, steadied himself in the boat, and then drove 
the iron spike down. 

“ I have him,” he said. “ That is the snake of the sea— 
I hate him as I hate a serpent.” 

He hoisted out of the water the dead dog-fish, which was 
about four feet long, and then shook it back. 

“ Here, Ogilvie,” said he, “ take the boat-hook. There 
are plenty about here. Make yourself St. Patrick extermi- 
nating snakes.” 

Ogilvie tried the dog-fish spearing with more or less suc- 
cess ; but it was the means of procuring for him a bitter dis- 
appointment. As they went quietly over the sea-weed — the 
keel of the boat hissing through it and occasionally grating 
on the sand — they perceived that the water was getting a 
bit deeper, and it was almost imposssible to strike the boat- 
hook straight. At this moment, Ogilvie, happening to cast 
a glance along the rocks close by them, started and seized 
Macleod’s arm. What the frightened eyes of the younger 
man seemed to see was a great white and gray object lying 
on the rocks, and staring at him with huge black eyes. At 
first it almost appeared to him to be a man with a grizzled 
and hairy face; then he tried to think of some white beast 
w ith big black eyes; then he knew. For the next second 
there was an unwieldy roll down the rocks, and then a heavy 
splash in the water ; and the huge gray seal had disappeared. 
And there he stood helpless, with the boat-hook in his hand. 

“ It is my usual luck,” said he, in despair. “ If I had 
had my rifle in my hand, we should never have got within a 
hundred yards of the beast. But I got an awful fright. I 
never before saw a live seal just in front of one’s nose like 
that.” 

“ You would have missed him,” said Macleod, coolly. 


*34 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


“ At a dozen yards ? ” 

“ Yes. When you come on one so near as that, you are 
too startled to take aim. You would have blazed aw^y and 
missed.” 

“ I don’t think so,” sa r d Ogilvie, with some modest pen 
sistence. “When I shot that stag, I was steady enough, 
though I felt my heart thumping away like fun.” 

“ There you had plenty of time to take your aim — and a 
rock to rest your rifle on.” And then he added: “You 
would have broken Hamish’s heart, Ogilvie, if you had missed 
that stag. He was quite determined you should have one on 
your first day out ; and I never saw him take such elaborate 
precautions before. I suppose it was terribly tedious to you ; 
but you may depend on it it was necessary. There isn’t one 
of the younger men can match Hamish, though he was bred a 
sailor.” 

“Well,” Mr. Ogilvie admitted, “I began to think we 
were having a great deal of trouble for nothing ; especially 
when it seemed as though the wind were blowing half a 
dozen ways in the one valley.” 

“ Why, man,” Macleod said, “ Hamish knows every one 
of those eddies just as if they were all down on a chart. 
And he is very determined, too, you shall have another stag 
before you go, Ogilvie ; for it is not much amusement we 
have been giving you since you came to us.” 

“ That is why I feel so particularly jolly at the notion of 
having to go back,” said Mr. Ogilvie, with very much the 
air of a schoolboy at the end of his holiday. “ The day 
after to-morrow, too ! ” 

“ To-morrow, then, we will try to get a stag for you ; 
and the day after you can spend what time you can at the 
pools in Glen Muick.” 

These last two days w r ere right royal d*ys for the guest 
at < lastle Dare. On the deer-stalking expedition Macleod 
simply refused to take his rifle with him, and spent all his 
time in whispered consultations with Hamish, and with eager 
watching of every bird whose solitary flight along the moun- 
tain-side might startle the wary hinds. After a long day of 
patient and stealthy creeping, and walking through bogs and 
streams, and slow toiling up rocky slopes, the party returned 
home in the evening ; and when it was found that a splen- 
did stag— with brow, bay, and tray, and crockets complete 
— was strapped on to the pony, and when the word was 
passed that Sandy the red haired and john from the yacht^ 


MACLEOD OF DARE . ^5 

were to take back the pony to a certain well-known cairn 
where another monarch of the hills lay slain, there was a 
great rejoicing through Castle Dare, and F,ady Macleod her- 
self must needs come out to shake hands with her guest, and 
to congratulate him on his good fortune. 

“ It is little we have been able to do to entertain you,” 
said the old silver-haired lady, “ but I am glad you have got 
a stag or two.” 

“ I knew what Highland hospitality was before I came * 
to Castle Dare,” said the boy, modestly. “ But you have 
been kinder to me even than anything I knew before.” 

“ And you will leave the heads with Hamish,” said she, 

“ and we will send them to Glasgow to be mounted for you, 
and then we will send them South to you.” 

“ Indeed no,” said he (though he was thinking to him- 
self that it waS no wonder the Macleods of Dare were poor); 

“ I will not put you to any such trouble. I will make my 
own arrangements with Hamish/' 

“Then you will tell him not to forget Aldershot.” 

“ I think, Lady Macleod,” said the young lieutenant, 

“ that my mess-companions will be sorry to hear that I have 
left Dare. I should think they ought to have drunk your 
health many times ere now.” 

Next day, moreover, he was equally successful by the side 
of the deep brown pools in Glen Muick. He was a pretty 
fair fisherman, though he had had but small experience with 
such a mighty engine of a rod as Hamish put into his hands. 
When, however, he showed Hamish the fine assortment of 
salmon flies he had brought with him, the old man only shook 
his head. Thereafter, whenever Hamish went with him, 
nothing was said about flies until they neared the side of the 
brawling stream that came pour ng down between the gray 
rocks and the patches of moist brown moor. Hamish 
would sit down on a stone, and take out a tin box and open 
it. Then he would take a quick look round — at the aspect 
of the clouds, the direction of the wind, and so forth ; and 
then, with a nimbleness that any one looking at his rough 
hands and broad thumbs would have considered impossible, 
would busk up a weapon of capture that soon showed itself 
to be deadly enough. And on this last day of Ogilvie’s stay 
at Castle Dare he was unusually lucky — though of course 
there were one or two heartrending mishaps. As they walked 
home in the evening — the lowering day had cleared away 
into a warm sunset, and they could see Colonsay, and Fladda, 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 


136 

and the Dutchman’s Cap, lying dark and purple on a golden • 
sea — Ogilvie said — 

“ Look here, Macleod, if you would like me to take one 
of these salmon for Miss White, I could take it as part of mj 
luggage, and have it delivered at once.” 

“ That would be no use,” said he, rather gloomily. “ She 
is not in London. She is at Liverpool or Manchester b) 
"his time I have already sent her a present.” 

* Ogilvie did not think fit to ask what : though he had 
guessed. 

“ It was a parcel of otter-skins,” Macleod said. “ You 
see, you might present that to any lady — it is merely a curi- 
osity of the district — it is no more than if an acquaintance 
were to give me a chip of quartz he had brought from the 
Rocky Mountains with a few grains of copper or silver in it.” 

“ It is a present any lady would be glad to have,” ob- 
served Mr. Ogilvie, with a smile. “ Has she got them yet ?” 

“ I do not know,” Macleod answered. “ Perhaps there 
is not time for an answer. Perhaps she has forgotten who I 
am, and is affronted at a stranger sending her a present.” 

“ Forgotten who you are ! ” Ogilvie exclaimed ; and then 
he looked round to see that Hamish and Sandy the red- 
haired were at a convenient distance. “ Do you know this, 
Macleod ? A man never yet was in love with a woman with- 
out the woman being instantly aware of it.” 

Macleod glanced at him quickly ; then turned away his 
head again, apparently watching the gulls wheeling high 
over the sea — black spots against the glow of the sunset. 

“ That is foolishness,” said he. “ I had a great care to 
be quite a stranger to her all the time I was in London. I 
myself scarcely knew — how could she know ? Sometimes I 
thought I was rude to her, so that I should deceive myself 
into believing she was only a stranger.” 

Then he remembered one fact, and his downright horesty 
made him speak again. 

“ One night, it is true,” said he — “ it was the last night 
of my being in London — I asked a flower from her. She 
gave it to me. She was laughing at the time. That was 
all.” 

The sunset had gone away, and tha clear northern twilight 
was fading too, when young Ogilvie, having bade good-bye 
to Lady Macleod and her niece Janet, got into the broad- 
beamed boat of the fishermen, accompanied by his friend. 
There was something of a breeze, and they hoisted a lugsail 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


*37 


so that they should run out to meet the steamer. Donald 
the piper lad was not with them ; Macleod wanted to speak 
to his friend Ogilvie as he was leaving. 

And yet he did not say anything of importance. He 
seemed to be chiefly interested in finding out whether Ogil 
yie could not get a few days’ leave, about Christmas, that he 
might come up and try the winter shooting. He was giving 
minute particulars about the use of arsenic paste when the 
box of skins to be despatched by Harnish reached London : 
and he was discussing what sort of mounting should be put 
on a strange old bottle that Janet Macleod had presented to 
the departing guest. There was no word of that which lay 
nearest his heart. 

And so the black waves rolled by them ; and the light at 
the horizon began to fade ; and the stars were coming out 
one by one ; while the two sailors forward (for Macleod was 
steering) were singing to themselves : 

“ Fhir a bhata ( na horo eile ) 

Fhir a bhata [na horo eile ) 

Fhir a b kata {na horo eile) 

Chead soire slann leid ge thobh a theid u t'*' 

that is to say, 

“ O Boatman, 

And Boatman, 

And L'oatman, 

A hundred farewells to you wherever you may go ?” 

And then the lug-sail was hauled down, and they lay on 
the lapping water ; and they could hear all around them the 
soft callings of the guillemots and razor-bills, and other divers 
whose home is the heaving wave. And then the great steamer 
came up and slowed ; and the boat was hauled alongside and 
young Ogilvie sprang up the slippery steps, 

“ Good-bye, Macleod ! ” 

“ Good-bye, Ogilvie ! Come up at Christmas.” 

The great bulk of the steamer soon floated away, and the 
lug-sail was run up again, and the boat made slowly ba.ck for 
Castle Dare. “ Fhir a bhata ! ” the men sung ; but Macleod 
scarcely heard them. His last tie with the S< uth had been 
broken. 

But not quite. It was about ten o’clopk that night that 
word came to Castle Dare that Duga|d the Post had met with 
an accident that morning while starting from Bunessan ; and 
that his place had been taken by a v oung lad who had but 


I3 8 MACLEOD OE DARE. 

now arrived with the bag. Macleod hastily looked over the 
bundle of newspapers, etc., they brought him, and his eager 
eyes fell on an envelope, the writing on which made his heart 
jump. 

“ Give the lad a half-crown,” said he. 

And then he went to his own room. He had the letter in 
his hand ; and he knew the handwriting ; but there was no 
wind of the night that could bring him the mystic message 
she had sent with it : 

> “ Ok, here is , Glenogie , a letter for thee I M 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

CONFIDENCES. 

For a second or two he held the letter in his hand, re- 
garding the’" outside of it; and it was with more deliberation 
than haste that he opened it. Perhaps it was with some little 
tremor of fear — lest the first words that should meet his eye 
might be cruelly cold and distant. What right had he to ex- 
pect anything else ? Many a time, in thinking carefully over 
the past, he had recalled the words — the very tone — in which 
he had addressed her, and had been dismayed to think of 
their reserve, which had on one or two occasions almost 
amounted to austerity. He could expect little beyond a for- 
mal acknowledgment of the receiving of his letter, and the 
present that had accompanied it. 

Imagine, then, his surprise when he took out from the 
envelope a number of sheets closely written over in her beau- 
tiful, small, neat hand. Hastily his eye ran over the first few 
lines ; and then surprise gave way to a singular feeling of 
gialitude and joy. Was * t indeed she who was writing to 
him thus ? When he had been thinking of her as some one 
far away and unapproachable — who could have no thought 
of him or of the too brief time in which he had been near to 
her — had she indeed been treasuring up some recollection 
that she now seemed disposed to value ? 

* You will guess that I am woman enough,” she wrote, 
M to be greatly pleased and flattered by you*- sending me such 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


*39 

a beautiful present ; but you must believe me when I say that 
Its chief value to me was its showing me that I had another 
friend in the world who was not disposed to forget me the 
next day after bidding me good-bye. Perhaps you will say 
that I am cynical ; but actresses are accustomed to find the 
friendships they make — outside the sphere of their own pro- 
fession — of a singularly temporary character. We are praised 
and flattered to-day, and forgotten to-morrow. I don’t com- 
pla n. It is only natural. People go away to their own 
families and home occupations ; why should they remember 
a person who has amused them for an hour ? ” 

Miss Gertrude White could, when she chose, write a clever 
and interesting letter — interesting from its very simplicity 
and frankness ; and as Macleod read on and on, he ceased 
to feel any wonder that this young lady should be placing 
before him such ample revelations of her experiences and 
opinions. Indeed, it was more than suggested in this con- 
fidential chat that Sir Keith Macleod himself had been the 
first cause of her having carefully studied her own position, 
and the influence likely to be exerted on her by her present 
mode of life. 

“ One meets with the harsher realities of an actress's 
life,” she said, “ in the provinces. It is all very fine in Lon- 
don, when all the friends you happen to have are in town, 
and where there is constant amusement, and pleasant parties, 
and nice people to meet ; and then you have the comforts of 
your own home around you, and quiet and happy Sundays. 
But a provincial tour! — the constant travelling, and rehears- 
als with strange people, and damp lodgings, and miserable 
hotels, and wet Sundays in smoky towns ! Papa is very good 
and kind, you know ; but he is interested in his books, and 
he goes about all day hunting after curiosities, and one has 
not a soul to speak to. Then the audiences : I have wit- 
nessed one or two scenes lately that would unnerve any one ; 
and of course I have to stand helpless and silent on the stage 
until the tumult is stilled and the original offenders expelled. 
Some sailors the other evening amused themselves by clam 
bering down the top gallery to the pit, hanging on to the gas- 
i brackets and the pillars ; and one of them managed to reach 
the orchestra, jump from the drum on to the stage, and then 
offered me a glass of whiskey from a big black bottle he had 
in his hand. When I told papa, he laughed, and said I should 
be proud of my triumph over the man’s imagination. But 
when the people roared with laughter at my discomfiture, I 


1 4 o MA CL ROD OF DA RE. 

felt as though I would rather be earning my bread by selling 
watercresses in the street or by stitching in a garret.” 

Of course the cry of the poor injured soul found a ready 
echo in his heart. It was monstrous that she should be sub 
jected to such indignities. And then that cruel old pagan 
of a father — was he not ashamed of himself to see the results 
of bis own cold-blooded theories ? Was this the glory of art ? 
Was this the reward of the sacrifice of a life ? That a sensi- 
tive girl should be publicly insulted by a tipsy maniac, and 
jeered at by a brutal crowd ? Macleod laid down the letter 
for a minute or two, and the look on his face was not lovely 
to see. 

“ You may think it strange that I should write thus to 
you,” she said ; “ but if I say that it was yourself who first 
set me thinking about such things ? And since I have been 
thinking about them I have had no human being near me to 
whom I could speak. You know papa’s opinions. Even if 
my dearest friend, Mrs. Ross, were here, what would she say? 
She has known me only in London. She thinks it a fine 
thing to be a popular actress. She sees people ready to pet 
me, in a way — so long as society is pleased to h^ve a little 
curiosity about me. But she does not see the other side of 
the picture. She does not even ask how long all this will 
last. She never thinks of the cares and troubles and down- 
right hard work. If ever you heard me sing, you will know 
that I h we very little of a voice, and that not worth much ; 
but trifli lg as it is, you would scarcely believe the care and 
cultivation I have to spend on it, merely for business pur- 
poses. Mrs. Ross, no doubt, sees that it is pleasant enough 
for a young actress, who is fortunate enough to have won 
some public favor, to go sailing in a yacht on the Thames, 
on a summer day, with nice companions around her. She 
does not see her on a wet day in Newcastle, practising scales 
for an hour at a stretch, though her throat is half choked 
with the fog, in a dismal parlor with a piano out of tune, and 
with the prospect of having to go out through the wet to a re- 
hearsal in a damp and draughty theatre, with escaped gas ad 
ded to the fog. That is very nice, isn’t it ? ” 

It al nost seemed to him — so intense and eager was his 
involuntary sympathy — as though he himself were breathing 
fog, and gas, and the foul odors of an empty theatre. He 
went to the window and threw it open, and sat down there. 
The stars were no longer quivering white on the black surface 
of the water, for the moon had risen now in the south, and 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


141 


there was a soft glow all shining over the smooth Atlantic. 
Sharp and white was the light on the stone-walls of Castle 
Dare, and on the gravelled path, and the rocks and the trees 
around ; but faraway it was a milder radiance that lay over 
the sea, and touched here and there the shores of Inch Ken- 
neth and Ulva and Colonsay. It was a fair and peaceful 
night, with no sound of human unrest to break the sleep of 
the world. Sleep, solemn and profound, dwelt over the lone- 
ly islands — over Staffa, with her resounding caves, and Flad- 
da, with her desolate rocks, and Iona, with her fairy- white 
sands, and the distant Dutchman, and Coll, and Tiree, all 
haunted by the wild sea-birds’ cry ; and a sleep as deep 
dwelt over the silent hills, far up under the cold light of the 
skies. Surely, if any pool suffering heart was vexed by the 
contentions of crowded cities, here, if anywhere in the world, 
might rest and peace and loving solace be found. He sat 
dreaming there ; he had half forgotten the letter. 

He roused himself from his reverie, and returned to the 
light. 

“ And yet I would not complain of mere discomfort,” 
she continued, “ if that were all. People who have to work 
for their living must not be too particular. What pains me 
most of all is the effect that this sort of work is having on 
myself. You would not believe — and I am almost ashamed 
to confess — how I am worried by small and mean jealousies 
and anxieties, and how I am tortured by the expression of 
opinions which, all the same, I hold in contempt. I reason 
with myself to no purpose. It ought to be no concern of 
mine if some girl in a burlesque makes the house roar, by 
the manner in which she walks up and down the stage smok- 
ing a cigar ; and yet I feel angry at the audience for ap- 
plauding such stuff, and I wince when I see her praised in 
the papers. Oh ! these papers ! I have been making 
minute inquiries of late ; and I find that the usual way in 
these towns is to let the young literary aspirant who has just 
joined the office, or the clever compositor who has been pro 
moted to the sub-editor’s room, try his hand first of all at 
reviewing books, and then turn him on to dramatic and musi- 
cal criticism ! Occasionally a reporter, who has been round 
the police courts to get notes of the night charges, will drop 
into the theatre on his way to the office, and * do a par.,’ as 
they call it Will you believe it possible that the things 
written of me by these persons — with their pretentious 
airs of criticism, and their gross ignorance cropping up ai 


142 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


every point — have the power to vex and annoy me most ter- 
ribly ? I laugh at the time, but the phrase rankles in my 
memory all the same. One learned young man said of me 
the other day : ‘ It is really distressing to mark the want of 
unity in her artistic characterizations when one regards the 
natural advantages that nature has heaped upon her with no 
sparing hand.’ The natural advantages that nature has 
heaped upon me ! ‘ And perhaps, also,’ he went on to say, 

‘Miss White would do well to pay some little more atten- 
tibn before venturing on pronouncing the classic names of 9 
Greece. Iphigenia herself would not have answered to her 
name if she had heard it pronounced with the accent on the 
fourth syllable.’ ” 

Macleod brought his fist down on the table with a bang. 

“If I had that fellow,” said he, aloud — “if I had that 
fellow, I should like to spin for a shark off Dubh Artach 
lighthouse.” And here a most unholy vision rose before 
him of a new sort of sport — a sailing launch going about six 
knots an hour, a goodly rope at the stern with a huge hook 
through the gill of the luckless critic, a swivel to make him 
spin, and then a few smart trips up and down by the side of 
the lonely Dubh Artach rocks, where Mr. Ewing and his com- 
panions occasionally find a few sharks coming up to the sur 
face to stare at them. 

“ Is it riot too ridiculous that such things should vex me 
— that I should be so absolutely at the mercy of the opinion 
of people whose judgment I know to be absolutely valueless ? 

I find the same thing all around me. I find a middle-aged 
man, who knows his work thoroughly, and has seen all the 
best actors of the past quarter of a century, will go about 
quite proudly with a scrap of approval from some newspaper, 
written by a young man who has never travelled beyond the 
suburbs of his native town, and has seen no acting beyond 
that of the local company. But there is another sort of critic 
— the veteran, the man who has worked hard on the paper 
and worn himself out, and who is turned off from politics, 
and pensioned by being allowed to display his imbecil‘ty in 
less important matters. Oh dear ! what lessons he reads 
you ! The solemnity of them ! Don’t you know that at the 
Cnd of the second act the business of Mrs. So-and-So (some 
actress who died when George IV. was king) was this, that, oi 
the other ? — and how dare you, you impertinent minx, fly in the 
face of well-known stage traditions ? I have been introduced 
lately to a specimen of both classes. I think the young man 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


*43 

—he had beautiful long fair hair and a Byronic collar, and 
was a little nervous— fell in love with me, for he wrote a 
furious panegyric of me, and sent it next morning with a 
bouquet, and begged for my photograph. The elderly gen* 
tleman, on the other hand, gave me a great deal of good ad- 
vice ; but I subdued even him, for before he went away he 
spoke in a broken voice, and there were tears in his eyes, 
which papa said were owing to a variety of causes. It is 
ludicrous enough, no doubt, but it is also a little bit humi ia 
ting. I try to laugh the thing away, whether the opinion ex- 
pressed about me is solemnly stupid or merely impertinent, 
but the vexation of it remains ; and the chief vexation to me 
is that I should have so little command of myself, so little 
respect for myself, as to suffer myself to be vexed. But how 
can one help it ? Public opinion is the very breath and life 
Of a theatre and of every one connected with it ; and you 
come to attach importance to the most foolish expression of 
opinion in the most obscure print.” 

“ And so, my dear friend, I have had my grumble out — * 
and made my confession too, for I should not like to let 
every one know how foolish I am about those petty vexations 
- — and you will see that I have not forgotten what you said 
to me, and that further reflection and experience have only 
confirmed it. But I must warn you. Now that I have vic- 
timized you to this fearful extent, and liberated my mind, I 
feel much more comfortable. As I write, there is a blue 
color coming into the window that tells me the new day is 
coming. Would it surprise you if the new day brought a com 
plete new set of feelings ? I have begun to doubt whether I 
have got any opinions — whether, having to be so many dif- 
ferent people in the course of a week, I have any clear notion 
as to what I myself am. One thing is certain, that I have 
been greatly vexed and worried of late by a succession of the 
merest trifles ; and when I got your kind letter and present 
this evening, I suddenly thought, Now for a complete con- 
fession and protest. I know you will forgive me for having 
victimized you, and that as soon as you have thrown this 
rambling epistle into the fire you will try to forget all the 
nonsense it contains and will believe that I hope always to 
remain your friend, 

“Gertrude White.” 

His quick and warm sympathy refused to believe the half 
of this letter. It was only because she knew what was owing 


144 


MACLEOD OF DARE, 

to the honor and seit-respect of a true woman that she spoke 
in this tone of bitter and scornful depreciation of herself. It 
was clear that she was longing for the dignity and indepen- 
dence of a more natural way of life. And this revelation — • 
that she was not, after all, banished forever into that cold 
region of art in which her father would fain keep her — some- 
what bewildered him af first. The victim might be reclaimed 
from the altar and restored to the sphere of simple human 
affections, natural duties, and joy ? And if he — 

Suddenly, and with a shock of delight that made his heart 
throb, he tried to picture this beautiful fair creature sitting 
over there in that very chair by the side of the fire, her head 
bent down over her sewing, the warm light of the lamp touch- 
ing the tender curve of her cheek. And when she lifted her 
head to speak to him — and when her large and lambent eyes 
met his — surely Fionaghal, the fair poetess from strange lands, 
never spoke in softer tones than this other beautiful stranger, 
who was now his wife and his heart’s companion. And now 
he would bid her lay aside her work, and he would get a 
white shawl for her, and like a ghost she would steal out with 
him into the moonlight air. And is there enough wind on 
this summer night to take them out from the sombre shore 
to the open plain of the sea ? Look now, as the land re- 
cedes, at the high walls of Castle Dare, over the black cliffs, 
and against the stars. Far away they see the graveyard of 
Inch Kenneth, the stones pale in the moonlight. And what 
song will she sing now, that Ulva and Colonsay may awake 
and fancy that some mermaiden is singing to bewail her lost 
lover ? The night is sad, and the song is sad ; and then, 
somehow, he finds himself alone in this waste of water, and 
all the shores of the islands are silent and devoid of life, and 
there is only the echo of the sad singing in his ears — 

, He jumps to his feet, for there is a knocking at the door. 
^The gentle Cousin Janet enters, and hastily he thrusts that 
letter into his pocket, while his face blushes hotly. 

“ Where have you been, Keith ? ” she says, in her quiet, 
kindly way. “ Auntie would like to say good-night to you 
now.” 

“ I will come directly,” said he. 

“ And now that Norman Ogilvie is away, Keith,” said 
she, “ you will take more rest about the shooting ; for you 
have not been looking like yourself at all lately : and "you 
know, Keith, when you are not well and happy, "it is no one 


MACLEOD OF DADE. T45 

at all about Dare that is happy either. And that is why you 
will take care of yourself.’’ 

He glanced at her rather uneasily ; but he said, in a light 
and careless way, — 

“ Oh, I have been well enough, Janet, except that T was 
not sleeping well one or two nights. And if you look aftet 
me like that, you will make me think I am a baby, ana you 
will send me some warm flannels when I go up on the hills.” 

“ It is too proud of your hardihood you are, Keith,” said 
h's cousin, with a smile. “But there never was a man of 
your family who would take any advice.” 

“ I would take any advice from you, Janet,” said he ; and 
therewith he followed her to bid good-night to the silver- 
haired mother. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A RESOLVE. 

He slept but little that night, and early the next morning 
he was up and away by himself — paying but little heed to 
the rushing blue seas, and the white gulls, and the sunshine 
touching the far sands on the shores of Iona. He was in a 
fever of unrest. He knew not what to make of that letter ; 
it might mean anything or nothing. Alternations of wild 
hope and cold despair succeeded each other. Surely it was 
unusual for a girl so to reveal her innermost confidences to 
any one whom she considered a stranger ? To him alone 
had she told this story of her private troubles. Was it not 
in effect asking for a sympathy which she could not hope for 
from any other? Was it not establishing a certain secret 
between them ? Her own father did not know. Her sister 
was too young to be told. Friends like Mrs. Ross could not 
understand why this young and beautiful actress, the favorite 
of the public, could be dissatisfied with her lot. It was to 
him alone she had appealed. 

And then again he read the letter. The very frankness 
of it made him fear. There was none of the shyness of a 
girl writing to one who might be her lover. She might have 
written thus to one of her school-companions. He eagerly 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


1 46 

searched it for some phrase of tenderer meaning ; but no 
there was a careless abandonment about it, as if she had 
been talking without thinking of the person she addressed* 
She had even joked about a young man falling in love with 
her. It was a matter of perfect indifference to her. It was 
ludicrous as the shape of the lad’s collar was ludicrous, but 
of no more importance. And thus she receded from his im- 
agination again, and became a thing apart — the while slave 
bound in those cruel chains that seemed to all but herself 
and him the badges of triumph. 

Herself and him — the conjunction set his heart throbbing 
quickly. He eagerly bethought himself how this secret 
understanding could be strengthened, if only he might see 
her and speak to her. He could tell by her eyes what she 
meant, whatever her words might be. If only he could see her 
again: all his wild hopes, and fears, and doubts — all his 
vague fancies and imaginings — began to narrow themselves 
down to this one point ; and this immediate desire became 
all-consuming. He grew sick at heart when he looked round 
and considered how vain was the wish. 

The gladness had gone from the face of Keith Macleod. 
Not many months before, any one would have imagined that 
the life of this handsome young fellow, whose strength, and 
courage, and high spirits seemed to render him insensible to 
any obstacle, had everything in it that the mind of man could 
desire. He had a hundred interests and activities ; he had 
youth and health, and a comely presence ; he was on good 
terms with everybody around him — for he had a smile and a 
cheerful word for each one he met, gentle or simple. All 
this gay, glad life seemed to have fled. The watchful Ham* 
ish was the first to notice that his master began to take les* 
and less "interest in the shooting and boating and fishing ; 
and at times the old man was surprised and disturbed by an 
exhibition of querulous impatience that had certainly never 
before been one of Macleod’s failings. Then his cousin Janet 
saw that he was silent and absorbed ; and his mother in- 
quired once or twice why he did not ask one or other of his 
neighbors to come over to Dare to have a day’s shooting with 
him. 

“ I think you are finding the place lonely, Keith, now 
that Norman Ogilvie is gone,” said she. 

“Ah, mother,” he said, with a laugh, “it is not Norman 
Ogilvie, it is London, that has poisoned my mind. I should 
never have gone to the South. I am hungering for the flesb 


MACLEOD OF DARK 147 

pots of Egypt already ; and [ am afraid some day I v\ ill have 
to come and ask you to let me go away again.” 

He spoke jestingly, and yet he was regarding his mother. 

“ I know it is not pleasant for a young man to be kept 
fretting at home,” said she. “ But it is not long now I will 
ask you to do that, Keith.” 

Of course this brief speech only drove him into *m>is 
vigorous demonstration that he was not fretting at all ; and 
for a time he seemed more engrossed than ever in all the oc- 
cupations he had but recently abandoned. But whether he 
w'as on the hillside, or down in the glen, or out among the 
islands, or whether he was trying to satisfy the hunger of 
his heart with books long after every one in Castle Dare had 
gone to bed, he could not escape from this gnawing and 
torturing anxiety. It was no beautiful and gentle sentiment 
that possessed him — a pretty thing to dream about during a 
summer’s morning — but, on the contrary, a burning fever of 
unrest, that left him peace nor day nor night. “ Sudden love 
is followed by sudden hate,” says the Gaelic proverb ; but 
there had been no suddenness at all about this passion that 
had stealthily got hold of him ; and he had ceased even to 
hope that it might abate or depart altogether. He had to 
“dree his weird.” And when he read in books about the 
joy and delight that accompany the awakening of love — how 
the world suddenly becomes fair, and the very skies are 
bluer than their wont — he wondered whether he was different 
from other human beings. The joy and delight of love? 
He knew only a sick hunger of the heart and a continual 
and brooding despair. 

One morning he was going along the cliffs, his only com- 
panion being the old black retriever, when suddenly he saw, 
far away below him, the figure of a lady. For a second his 
heart stood still at the sight of this stranger ; for he knew it 
was neither the mother nor Janet; and she was coming 
along a bit of greensward from which, by dint of much 
climbing, she might have reached Castle Dare. But as he 
watched her he caught sight of some other figures, farthei 
below on the rocks. And then he perceived — as he saw he) 
return with a handful of bell-heather — that this party had 
come from Iona, or Bunessan, or some such place, to explore 
one of the great caves on this coast, while this lady had wan- 
dered away from them in search of some wild flowers. By 
and by he saw the small boat with its spritsail white in the 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


1 48 

sun, go away toward the south, and the lonely coast was left 
as lonely as before. 

But ever after that he grew to wonder what Gertrude 
White, if ever she could be persuaded to visit his home, 
would think of this thing and of that thing — what flowers 
she would gather — whether she would listen to Hamish’s 
stories of the fairies — whether she would be interested in her 
small countryman, Johnny Wickes, who was now in kilts, 
with- his face and legs as brown as a berry — whether the 
favorable heavens would send her sunlight and blue skies, 
and the moonlight nights reveal to her the solemn glory of 
the sea and the lonely islands. Would she take his hand to 
steady herself in passing over the slippery rocks ? What 
would she say if suddenly she saw above her — by the open- 
ing of a cloud — a stag standing high on a crag near the sum- 
mit of Ben-an-Sloich ? And what would the mother and 
Janet say to that singing of hers, if they were to hear her put 
all the tenderness of the ow, sweet voice into “ Wae’s me 
for Prince Charlie ? ” 

There was one secret nook that more than any other he 
associated with her presence ; and thither he would go when 
this heart-sickness seemed too grievous to be borne. It 
was down in a glen beyond the fir-wood ; and here the or- 
dinary desolation of this bleak coast ceased, for there were 
plenty of young larches on the sides of the glen, with a tall 
silver-birch or two ; while down in the hollow there were 
clumps of alders by the side of the brawling stream. And 
this dell that he sought was hidden away from sight, with 
the sun but partially breaking through the alders and rowans, 
and bespeckling the great gray boulders by the side of the 
burn, many of which were covered by the softest of olive- 
green moss. Here, too, the brook, that had been broken 
just above by intercepting stones, swept clearly and limpidly 
over a bed of smooth rock ; and in the golden-brown water 
the trout lay, and scarcely moved until some motion of his 
hand made them shoot up stream with a lightning speed. 
And then the wild flowers around — the purple ling and red 
bell heather growing on the silver-gray rocks ; a foxglove or 
two towering high above the golden-green breckans ; the red 
star of a crane’s-bill among the velvet moss. Even if she 
were overawed by the solitariness of the Atlantic and the 
gloom of the tall cliffs and their yawning caves, surely here 
would be a haven of peace and rest, with sunshine, and 
flowers, and the pleasant murmur of the stream. What did 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


149 


it say, then, as one sat and listened in the silence ? When 
the fair poetess from strange lands came among the Mac- 
leods, did she seek out this still retreat, and listen, and listen, 
and listen until she caught the music of this monotonous mur- 
mur, and sang it to her harp ? And was it not all a song about 
the passing away of life, and how that summer days were for 
the young, and how the world was beautiful for lovers ? “ Oh, 
children!” it seemed to say, “why should you waste youi 
lives in vain endeavor, while the winter is coming quick, and 
the black snowstorms, and a roaring of wind from the sea ? 
Here I have flowers for you, and beautiful sunlight, and the 
peace of summer days. Time passes — time passes — time 
passes — and you are growing old. While as yet the heart is 
warm and the eye is bright, here are summer flowers for you, 
and a silence fit for the mingling of lovers’ speech. If you 
listen not, I laugh at you and go my way. But the winter is 
coming fast.” 

Far away in these grimy towns, fighting with mean cares 
and petty jealousies, dissatisfied, despondent, careless as to 
the future, how could this message reach her to fill her heart 
with the singing of a bird ? He dared not send it, at all 
events. But he wrote to her. And the bitter travail of the 
writing of that letter he long remembered. He was bound 
to give her his sympathy, and to make light as well as he 
could of those very evils which he had been the first to re- 
veal to her. He tried to write in as frank and friendly a 
spirit as she had done ; the letter was quite cheerful. 

“ Did you know,” said he, “ that once upon a time the 
chief of the Macleods married a fairy ? And whether Mac- 
leod did not treat her well, or whether the fairy-folk reclaimed 
her, or whether she grew tired of the place, I do not know 
quite ; but, at all events, they were separated, and she went 
away to her own people. But before she went away she gave 
to Macleod a fairy banner — the Bratach sith it is known as 
— and she told him that if ever he was in great peril, or had 
any great desire, he was to wave that flag, and whatever he 
desired would come to pass. But the virtue of the Bratach 
sith would depart after it had been waved three times. Now 
the small green banner has been waved only twice ; and now 
I believe it is still preserved in the Castle of Dunvegan, 
with power to work one more miracle on behalf of the Mac- 
leods. And if I had the fairy flag, do you know what I 
would do with it ? I would take it in my hand, and say : ‘7 
desire the fairy people to remove my friend Gertrude White from 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


* 5 ° 

all the evil influences that disturb and distress her . I desire 
them to heal her wounded spirit, and secure for her everything 
that may tend to her l f e-long happiness. And I desire that ah 
the theatres in the kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland — with 
all their musical instruments, lime-light, and painted scenes — • 
may be taken and dropped into the ocean, midway between the is* 
lands of Ulva and Coll \ so that the fairy folk may amuse them 
reives in them if they will so please .’ Would not that be a very 
" nice form of incantation ? We are very strong believers 
here in the power of one person to damage another in ab- 
sence ; and when you can kill a man by sticking pins into, a 
waxen image of him — which everybody knows to be true — 
surely you ought to be able to help a friend, especially with 
the aid of the Braiach sit/i. Imagine Covent Garden Theatre 
a hundred fathoms down in the deep sea, with mermaidens 
playing the brass instruments in the orchestra, and the fairy- 
folk on the stage, and seals disporting themselves in the 
stalls, and guillemots shooting about the upper galleries in 
pursuit of fish. But we should get no peace from Iona. The 
fairies there are very pious people. They used to carry St. 
Columba about when he got tired. They would be sure to 
demand the shutting up of all the theaties, and the destruo 
tion of the brass instruments. And I don’t see how we could 
reasonably object.” 

It was a cruel sort of jesting ; but how othenvise than as 
a jest could he convey to her, an actress, his wish that all 
theatres were at the bottom of the sea ? For a brief time 
that letter seemed to establish some link of communication 
between him and her. He followed it on its travels by sea 
and land. He thought of its reaching the house in which 
she dwelt — perhaps some plain and grimy building in a great 
manufacturing city, or perhaps a small quiet cottage up by 
Regent’s Park half hidden among the golden leaves of 
October. Might she not, moreover, after she had opened it 
and read it, be moved by some passing whim to answer it, 
though it demanded no answer ? He waited for a week, and 
there was no word or message from the South. She was far 
away, and silent. And the hills grew lonelier than before, 
and the sickness of his heart increased. 

This state of mind could not last. His longing and im- 
patience and unrest became more than he conld bear. It 
was in vain that he tried to satisfy his imaginative craving 
with these idle visions of her : it was she herself he must see; 
and he set about devising all manner of wild excuses for one 


MACLEOD OL DARE. 


1 5 1 


last visit to the South. But the more he considered these 
various projects, the more ashamed he grew in thinking of 
his taking any one of them and placing it before the beauti- 
ful old dame who reigned in Castle Dare. He had barely 
been three months at home : how could he explain to her 
this sudden desire to go away again ? 

One morning his cousin Janet came to him. 

“Oh, Keith ! ” said she, “ the whole house is in commo- 
tion ; and Hamish is for murdering some of the lads ; and 
there is no one would dare to bring the news to you. The 
two young buzzards have escaped ! ” 

“ I know it,” he said. “ I let them out myself.” 

“You!” she exclaimed in surprise; for she knew the 
great interest he had shown in watching the habits of the 
young hawks that had been captured by a shepherd lad. 

“Yes ; I let them out last night. It was a pity to have 
them caged up.” 

“ So long as it was yourself, it is all right,” she said ; and 
then she was going away. But she paused and turned, and 
said to him, with a smile, “ And I think you should let your- 
self escape, too, Keith, for it is you too that are caged up ; 
and perhaps you feel it now more since you have been to 
London. And if you are thinktng of your friends in London, 
why should you not go for another visit to the South before 
vou settle down to the long winter ? ” 

} or an instant he regarded her with some fear. Had she 
ess^d his secret ? Had she been watching the outward 
gns of this constant torture he had been suffering ? Had 
she surmised that the otter-skins about which he had asked 
her advice were not consigned to any one of the married la- 
dies whose acquaintance he had made in the South, and of 
wiiom he had chatted freely enough in Castle Dare ? Or was 
this merely a passing suggestion thrown out by one who was 
always on the lookout to do a kindness ? 

“Well, I would like to go, Janet,” he said, but with no 
gladness in his voice ; “ and it is not more than a week or two 
I should like to be away; but I do not think the mother 
would like it ; and it is enough money I have spent this year 
already ” 

“ There is no concern about the money, Keith,” said she, 
simply, “ since you have not touched what I gave you. And 
if you are set upon it, you know auntie will agree to whatever 

you wish.” 


* 5 2 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


“ But how can I explain to her? It is unreasonable to be 
going away.” 

How, indeed, could he explain ? He was almost assum 
ing that those gentle eyes now fixed on him could read his 
heart, and that she would come to aid him in his suffering 
withotr: any further speech from him. And that was pre 
cisely what Janet Macleod did — whether or not she had 
guessed the cause of his desire to get away. 

“ If you were a schoolboy, Keith, you would be cleverei 
at making an excuse for playing truant, she said, laughing * 
“ And I could make one for you now.” 

“ You ? ” 

“I will not call it an excuse, Keith,” she said, “ because 
I think you would be doing a good work ; and I will bear the 
expense of it, if you please.” 

He looked more puzzled than ever. 

“ When we were at Salen yesterday I saw Major Stuart, 
and he has just came back from Dunrobin. And he was say- 
ing very great things about the machine for the drying of 
crops in wet weather, and he said he would like to go to 
England to see the newer ones and all the later improve- 
ments, if these was a chance of any one about here going 
shares with them. And it would not be very much. Keith, if 
you were to share with him ; and the machine it can be moved 
about very well ; and in the bad weather you could give the 
cotters some help, to say nothing about our own hay and corn. 
And that is what Major Stuart was saying yesterday, that if 
there was any place that you wanted a drying-machine for 
the crops it was in Mull.” 

“ I have been thinking of it myself,” he said, absently, 

“ but our farm is too small to make it pay ” 

“ But if Major Stuart will take half the expense ? And 
even if you lost a little, Keith, you would save a great deal 
to the poorer people w'ho are continually losing their little 
patches of crops. And will you go and be my agent, Keith, 
to go and see whether it is practicable ? ” 

“They will not thank you, Janet, for letting them have 
this help for nothing.” 

“ They shall not have it for nothing,” said she — for she 
hjd plenty of experience in dealing with the poorer folk 
around — “ they must pay for the fuel that is used. And now. 
Keith, if it is a holiday you want, will not that be a very good 
hpliday, and one to be used for a very good purpose, too ? ” 

She left him. Where was the eager joy with which he 


MACLEOD OF DARE 


T 53 


oughi. to have accepted this offer? Here was the very means 
placed within his reach of satisfying the craving desire of his 
heart; and yet, all the same, he seemed to shrink back with 
a vague and undefined dread. A thousand impalpable fears 
and doubts beset his mind. He had grown timid as a woman. 
The old happy audacity had been destroyed by sleepless 
nights and a torturing anxiety. It was a new thing for Keith 
Macleod to have become a prey to strange unintelligible fore- 
bodings. 

But he went and saw Major Stuart — a round, red, jolly 
little man, with white hair and a cheerful smile, who had a 
sombre and melancholy wife. Major Stuart received Mac- 
Ieod’s offer with great gravity. It was a matter of business 
that demanded serious consideration. He had worked out 
the whole system of drying crops with hotair as it was shown 
him in pamphlets, reports, and agricultural journals, and he 
had come to the conclusion that — on paper at least — it could 
be made to pay. What was wanted was to give the thing a 
practical trial. If the system was sound, surely any one who 
helped to introduce it into, the Western Highlands was doing 
a very good work indeed. And there was nothing but per- 
sonal inspection could decide on the various merits of latest 
improvements. 

This was what he said before his wife one night at dinner. 
But when the ladies had left the room, the little stout major 
suddenly put up both his hands, snapped his thumb and 
middle finger, and very cleverly executed one or two reel 
steps. 

“ By George ! my boy,” said he, with a ferocious grin on 
his face, “ I think we will have a little frolic — h little frolic ! 
— a little frolic ! You were never shut up in a house for six 
months with a woman like my wife, were you, Macleod? 
You were never reminded of your coffin every morning, were 
you ? Macleod, my boy, I am just mad to get after those 
drying-machines ! ” 

And indeed Macleod could not have had a merrier com- 
panion to go South with him than this rubicund major just 
escaped from the thraldom of his wife. But it was with no 
such high spirits that Macleod set out. Perhaps it was only 
the want of sleep that had rendered him nerveless and 
morbid ; but he felt, as he left Castle Dare, that there was a 
lie in his actions, if not in his words. And as for the future 
that lay before him, it was a region only of doubt, and vague 


1 54 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


regrets, and unknown fears ; and he was entering upon it 
without any glimpse of light, and without the guidance of 
any friendly hand. 


CHAPTER XX. 

OTTER-SKINS. 

M Ah, pappy,” said Miss Gertrude White to her father — 
and she pretended to sigh as she spoke — “ this is a change 
indeed ! ” 

They were driving up to the gate of the small cottage in 
South Bank. It was the end of October. In the gardens 
they passed the trees were almost bare ; though such leaves 
as hung sparsely on the branches of the chestnuts and maples 
were ablaze with russet and gold in the misty sunshine. 

“ In another week,” she continued, “ there will not be a 
leaf left. I dare say there is not a single geranium in the 
garden. All hands on deck to pipe a farewell : 

1 Ihr Matten, lebt wohl, 

Ihr sonnigen Weiden 
Der Senne muss scheiden, 

Der Sommer ist him* 

Farewell to the blue mountains of Newcastle, and the sunlit 
valleys of Liverpool, and the silver waterfalls of Leeds ; the 
summer is indeed over ; and a very nice and pleasant sum- 
mer we have had of it.” 

The flavor of sarcasm running through this affected sad 
ness vexed Mr. White, and he answered, sharply, 

“ I think you have little reason to grumble over a tour 
which has so distinctly added to your reputation.” 

“ 1 was not aware,” said she, with a certain careless sauci- 
nr.ss of manner, “ that an actress was allowed to have a 
reputation ; at least, there are always plenty of people 
anxious enough to take it away.” 

“ Gertrude,” said he, sternly, “ what do you mean by 
this constant carping ? Do you wish to cease to be an 
actress ? or what in all the world do you want ? ” 

“ To cease to be an actress ? ” she said, with a mild won 


MACLEOD OF DARE 


l 55 


der, and with the sweetest of smiles, as she prepared to get 
out of the open door of the cab. “ Why, don’t you know ; 
pappy, that a leopard cannot change his spots, or an Etheopian 
his skin ? Take care of the step, pappy ! That’s right. Come 
here, Marie, and give the cabman a hand with this portman- 
teau.” 

Miss White was not grumbling at all — but, on the con- 
trary, was quite pleasant and cheerful — when she entered the 
small house and found herself once more at home. 

“ Oh, Carry,” she said, when her sister followed her into 
her i oom; “ you don’t know what it is to get back home, after 
having been bandied from one hotel to another hotel, and 
from one lodging-house to another lodging-house, for good- 
ness knows how long.” 

“ Oh, indeed ! ” said Miss Carry, with such marked cold- 
ness that her sister turned to her. 

“ What is the matter with you ? ” 

“ What is the matter with you ? ” the younger sister re- 
torted, with sudden fire. “ Do you know that your letters to 
me have been quite disgraceful ? ” 

“You are crazed, child — you wrote something about it 
the other day — I could not make out what you meant,” said 
Miss White ; and she went to the glass to see that the beau- 
tiful brown hair had not been too much disarranged by the 
removal of her bonnet. 

“ It is you are crazed, Gertrude White,” said Carry, who 
had apparently picked up from some melodrama the notion 
that it was rather effective to address a person by her full 
name. “ I am really ashamed of you — that you should have 
let yourself be bewitched by a parcel of beasts’ skins. I de- 
clare that your ravings about the Highlands, and fairies, and 
trash of that sort, have been only fit for a penny journal — ” 

Miss White turned and stared — as well she might. This 
indignant person of fourteen had flashing eyes and a visage 
of wrath. The pale, calm, elder sister only remarked, in that 
deep-toned and gentle voice of hers, 

“ Your language is pretty considerably strong, Carry. 1 
don’t know what has aroused such a passion in you. Be- 
cause I wrote to you about the Highlands ? Because I sent 
you that collection of legends ? Because it seemed to me, 
when I was in a wretched hotel in some dirty town, I would 
rather be away yachting or driving with some one of the va- 
rious parties of people whom I know, and who had mostly 
gone to Scotland this year ? If you are jealous of the High- 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


*56 

lands, Carry, I will undertake to root out the name of every 
mountain and lake that has got hold of my affections.” 

She was turning away again, with a quiet smile on her 
face, when her younger sister arrested her. 

“What’s that?” said she, so sharply, and extending her 
forefinger so suddenly, that Gertrude almost shrank back. 

“ What’s what ? ” she said, in dismay — fearing, perhaps, 
(0 hear of an adder being on her shoulder. 

“ You know perfectly well,” said Miss Carry, vehemently. 
“ it is the Macleod tartan !” 

Now the truth was that Miss White’s travelling-dress was 
of an unrelieved gray ; the only scrap of color about her cos- 
tume being a tiny thread of tartan ribbon that just showed in 
front of her collar. 

“ The Macleod tartan ? ” said the eldest sister, demurely. 
“ And what if it were the Macleod tartan ? ” 

“ You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Gerty ! There 
was quite enough occasion for people to talk in the way he 
kept coming here ; and now you make a parade of it ; you 
ask people to look at you wearing a badge of servitude — you 
say, ‘ Oh, here I am ; and I am quite ready to be your wife 
when you ask me, Sir Keith Macleod ! ” 

There was no flush of anger in the fair and placid face ; 
liut rather a look of demure amusement in the downcast eyes. 

“Dear me, Carry ! ” said she, with great innocence, “ the 
profession of an actress must be looking up in public estima- 
tion when such a rumor as that could even get into exist- 
ence. And so people have have been so kind as to suggest 
that Sir Keith Macleod, the representative of one of the oldest 
and proudest families in the kingdom, would not be above 
marrying a poor actress who has her living to earn, and who 
is supported by the half-crowns and half-sovereigns of the 
public ? And indeed I think it would look very well to have 
him loitering about the stage-doors of provincial theatres 
until his wife should be ready to come out ; and would he 
biing his gillies, and keepers, and head-foresters, and put 
them into the pit to applaud her? Really, the role you have 
cut out for a Highland gentleman ” 

“A Highland gentleman ! ” exclaimed Cany. “ A High- 
land pauper ! But you are quite right, Gerty, to laugh at 
the rumor. Of course it is quite ridiculous. It is quite 
ridiculous to think that an actress whose fame is all over 
England — who is sought after by everybody, and the popu 
lmrest favorite ever seen — would give up everything and 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


*57 


go away and marry an ignorant Highland savage, and look 
after his calves and his cows and hens for him. That is in- 
deed ridiculous, Gerty.” 

“ Very well, then, put it out of your mind ; and never let 
me hear another word about it,” said the popularest favorite, 
as she undid the bit of tartan ribbon ; “ and if it is any great 
comfort to you to know, this is not the Macleod tartan but 
the MacDougal tartan, and you may put it in the fire if you 
like.” 

Saying which, she threw the bit of costume which had 
given so great offence on the table. The discomfited Car y 
looked at it, but would not touch it. At last she said, 

“ Where are the skins, Gerty ? ” 

“ Near Castle Dare,” answered Miss White, turning to 
get something else for her neck ; “ there is a steep hill, and 
the road comes over it. When you climb to the top of the 
hill and sit down, the fairies will carry you right to the bot- 
tom if you are in a proper frame of mind. But they won’t 
appear at all unless you are at peace with all men. I will 
show you the skins when you are in a proper frame of mind, 
Carry.” 

“ Who told you that story ? ” she asked quickly. 

“ Sir Keith Macleod,” the elder sister said, without think- 
ing. 

“ Then he has been writing to you ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

She marched out of the room. Gertrude White, uncon 
scious of the fierce rage she had aroused, carelessly pro 
ceeded with her toilet, trying now one flower and now an- 
other in the ripples of her sun-brown hair, but finally dis- 
carding these half-withered things for a narrow band of blue 
velvet. 

“ Threescore o’ nobles rode up the king’s ha’,” 

she was humming thoughtlessly to herself as she stood with 
her hands uplifted to her head, revealing the beautiful lines 
of her figure, 


“But Bonnie Glenogie’s the flower o’ them a’ ; 
Wi’ his milk-white steed and his coal-black e’e : 
Glenogie, dear mither, Glenogie for me ! ” 


At length she had finished, and was ready to proceed to her 
immediate work of overhauling domestic affairs. When 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


*58 

Keith Macleod was struck by the exceeding neatness and 
perfection of arrangement in this small home, he was in 
nowise the victim of any stage-effect. Gertrude White was 
at all times and in all seasons a precise and accurate house- 
mistress. Harassed, as an actress must often be, by other 
cares ; sometimes exhausted with hard work ; perhaps 
tempted now and again by the self-satisfaction of a splendid 
triumph to let meaner concerns go unheeded ; all the same, 
she allowed nothing to interfere with her domestic duties. 

“ Gerty,” her father said, impatiently, to her a day or 
two before they left London for the provinces, “what is the 
use of ) our going down to these stores yourself ? Surely 
you can send Jane or Marie. You really waste far too much 
time over the veriest trifles : how can it matter what sort of 
mustard we have ? ” 

“ And, indeed, I am glad to have something to convince 
me that I am a human being and a woman,” she had said, 
instantly, “ something to be myself in. I believe Providence 
intended me to be the manager of a Swiss hotel.” 

This was one of the first occasions on which she had re- 
vealed to her father that she had been thinking a good deal 
about her lot in life, and was perhaps beginning to doubt 
whether the struggle to become a great and famous actress 
was the only thing worth living for. But he paid little at- 
tention to it at the time. He had a vague impression that 
it was scarcely worth discussing about. He was pretty well 
convinced that his daughter was clever enough to argue her- 
self into any sort of belief about herself, if she should take 
some fantastic notion into her head. It was not until that 
night in Manchester that he began to fear there might be 
something serious in these expressions of discontent. 

On this bright October morning Miss Gertrude White 
was about to begin her domestic inquiries, and was leaving 
her room humming cheerfully to herself something about the 
bonnie Glenogie of the song, when she was again stopped by 
her sister, who was carrying a bundle. 

“ I have got the skins,” she said, gloomily. “Jane took 
them out.” 

“ Will you look at them ? ” the sister said, kindly. “ They 
are very pretty. If they were not a present, I would give 
them to you, to make a jacket of them.” 

“ I wear them ? ” said she. “ Not likely ! ” 

Nevertheless she had sufficient womanly curiosity to let 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


*59 

her elder sister open the parcel ; and then she took up the 
otter-skins one by one, and looked at them. 

“ I don’t think much of them,” she said, 

The other bore this taunt patiently. 

“ They are only big moles, aren’t they ? And I thought 
moleskin was only worn by working-people.” 

“•I am a working-person too,” Miss Gertrude White 
said ; “ but, in any case, I think a jacket of these skins will 
look lovely.” 

“ Oh, do you think so ? Well, you can’t say much for 
the smell of them.” 

“It is no more disagreeable than the smell of a sealskin 
jacket.” 

She laid down the last of the skins with some air of dis- 
dain. 

“It will be a nice series of trophies, anyway — showing 
you know some one who goes about spending his life in kill- 
ing inoffensive animals.” 

“ Poor Sir Keith Macleod 1 What has he done to offend 
you, Carry ? ” 

Miss Carry turned her head away for a minute ; but 
presently she boldly faced her sister. 

“ Gerty, you don’t mean to marry a beauty man ! ” 

Gerty looked considerably puzzled ; but her companion 
continued, vehemently, — 

“ How often have I heard you say you would never marry 
a beauty man — a man who has been brought up in front of 
the looking-glass — who is far too well satisfied with his own 
good looks to think of anything or anybody else ! Again 
and again you have said that, Gertrude White. You told me, 
rather than marry a self-satisfied coxcomb, you would marry 
a misshapen, ugly little man, so that he would worship you all 
the days of your life for your condescension and kindness.” 

“ Very well, then ! ” 

“ And what is Sir Keith Macleod but a beauty man ? ” 

“ He is not ! ” and for once the elder sister betrayed 
some feeling in the proud tone of her voice. “ He is the 
manliest-looking man that I have ever seen ; and I have 
seen a good many more men than you. There is not a man 
you know whom he could not throw across the canal down 
■here. Sir Keith Macleod a beauty man ! — I think he could 
take on a good deal more polishing, and curling, and smooth- 
ing without any great harm. If I was in any danger, 
I know which of all the men I have seen I would rather 


j 6 o MACLEOD OF DARE. 

have in front of me — with his arms free; and I don’t 
suppose he would be thinking of any looking-glass ! If you 
want to know about the race he represents, read English his 
tory, and the story of England’s wars. If you go to India, 
or China, or Africa, or the Crimea, you will hear something 
about the Macleods, I think ! ” 

Carry began to cry. 

“ You silly thing, what is the matter with you ? ” Ger* 
t rude White exclaimed ; but of course her arm was round 
her sister’s neck. 

“ It is true, then.” 

“ What is true ? ” 

“ What people say.” 

“ What do people say ? ” 

“ That you will marry Sir Keith Macleod.” 

“ Carry ! ” she said, angrily, “ I can’t imagine who has 
been repeating such idiotic stories to you. I wish people 
would mind their own business. Sir Keith Macleod marry 
me ! ” 

“ Do you mean to say he has never asked you ? ” Carry 
said, disengaging herself, and fixing her eyes on her sister's 
face. 

“Certain 1 ?^t!” was the decided answer ; but all the 
same, Mbs uuuude White’s forehead and cheeks flushed 
slightly. 

“ Then you know that he means to ; and that is why you 
have been writing to me, day after day, about the romance 
of the Highlands, and fairy stories, and the pleasure of peo- 
ple who could live without caring for the public. Oh, Gerty, 
why won’t you be frank with me, and let me know the worst 
at once ? ” 

“ If I gave you a box on the ears,” she said, laughing, 
1 that would be the worst at once ; and I think it would serve 
you right for listening to such tittle-tattle and letting your 
head be filled with nonsense. Haven’t you sufficient sense 
to know that you ought not to compel me to speak of such a 
thing- — absurd as it is ? I cannot go on denying that I am 
about to become the wife of Tom, Dick, or Harry ; and you 
know the stories that have been going about for years past. 
•Who was I last ? The wife of a Russian nobleman who 
gambled away all my earnings at Homburg. You are four- 
teen now, Carry; you should have more sense.” 

Miss Carry dried her eyes ; but she mournfully shook 
her head. There were the otter-skins lying on the table. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. r6i 

She had seen plenty of the absurd paragraphs about her sis- 
ter which good-natured friends had cut out of provincial and 
foreign papers and forwarded to the small family at South 
Bank. But the mythical Russian nobleman had never sent 
a parcel o* otter-skins. These were palpable and not to be 
explained away. She sorrowfully left the room, uncon- 
vinced. 

And now Miss Gertrude White set to work with a will • 
and no one who was? only familiar with her outside her own 
house would have recognized in this shifty, practical, indus- 
trious person, who went so thoroughly into all the details of 
the smail establishment, the lady who, when she went abroad 
among the gayeties of the London season, was so eagerly 
sought after, and flattered, and petted, and made the object 
of all manner of delicate attentions. Her father, who sus- 
pected that her increased devotion to these domestic duties 
was but part of that rebellious spirit she had recently be- 
trayed, had nevertheless to confess that there was no one but 
herself whom he could trust to arrange his china and dust 
his curiosities. And how could he resent her giving instruc- 
tions to the cook, when it was his own dinner that profited 
thereby ? 

“ Well, Gerty,” he said that evening after dinner, “what 

do you think about Mr. ’s offer ? It is very good-natured 

of him to let you have the ordering of the drawing-room 
scene, for you can have the furniture and the color to suit 
your own costume.” 

“ Indeed I shall have nothing whatever to do with it,” 
said she, promptly. “The furniture at home is enough for 
me. I don’t wish to become the upholsterer of a theatre.” 

“You are very ungrateful, then. Half the effect of a 
modern comedy is lost because the people appear in rooms 
which resemble nothing at all that people ever lived in. 
Here is a man who gives you carte blanche to put a modern 
drawing-room on the stage ; and your part would gain in- 
finitely from having real surroundings I consider it a very 
flattering offer.” 

*■' And perhaps it is, pappy,” said she, “but I think I do 
enough if f get through my own share of the work. And it 
is very silly of him to want me to introduce a song into this 
part, too. He knows I can’t sing — ” 

“ Gerty ! ” her sister said. 

“ Oh, you know as well as I. I can get through a song 
well enough in a room ; but I have not enough voice for a 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


i6i 

theatre ; and although he says it is only to make the draw- 
ing-room scene more realistic — and that I need not sing to 
the front — that is all nonsense. I know what it is meant for 
• — to catch the gallery. Now I refuse to sing for the gallery,” 

This was decided enough. 

“ What was the song you put into your last part, Gerty ? * 
her sister asked. “ I saw something in the papers about it.' 

“It was a Scotch one, Carry ; I don’t think you know 

it.” 

“ I wonder it was not a Highland one,” her sister said, 
rather spitefully. 

“ Oh, I have a whole collection of Highland ones now ; 
would you like to hear one ? Would you, pappy ? ” 

She went and fetched the book, and opened the piano. 

“ It is an old air that belonged to Scarba,” she said , 
and then she sang, simply and pathetically enough, the some- 
what stiff and cumbrous English translation of the Gaelic 
words. It was the song of the exiled Mary Macleod, who, 
sitting on the shores of “ sea-worn Mull,” looks abroad on 
the lonely islands of Scarba, and Islay, and Jura, and la- 
ments that she is fai away from her own home. 

“ How do you like it, pappy ? ” she said, when she had 
finished. “ It is a pity I do not know the Gaelic. They say 
that when the chief heard these verses repeated, he let the 
old woman go back to her own home.” 

One of the two listeners, at all events, did not seem to be 
particularly struck by the pathos of Mary Macleod’s lament. 
She walked up to the piano. 

“ Where did you get that book, Gerty ? ” she said, in a 
firm voice. 

“ Where ? ” said the other, innocently. “In Manchester, 
I think it was, I bought it.” 

But before she had made the explanation, Miss Carry 
convinced that this, too, had come from her enemy, had 
seized the book and turned to the title-page. Neither on 
title-page nor on fly-leaf, however, was there any inscription. 

“ Did you think it had come with the otter-skins, Carry ? ” 
the elder sister said, laughing ; and the younger one retired, 
baffled and chagrined, but none the less resolved that before 
Gertrude White completely gave herself up to this blind in- 
fatuation for a savage country and for one of its worthless 
inhabitants, she would have to run the gauntlet of many s 
sharp word of warning and reproach. 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


163 


CHAPTER XXI. 

IN LONDON AGAIN. 

On through the sleeping counties rushed the train- 
passing woods, streams, fertile valleys, and clustering villages, 
all palely shrouded in the faint morning mist that had a sort 
of suffused and hidden sunlight in it : the world had not yet 
awoke. But Macleod knew that, ere he reached London 
people would be abroad ; and he almost shrank from meet- 
ing the look of these thousands of eager faces. Would not 
some of them guess his errand ? Would he not be sure to 
run against a friend of hers — an acquaintance of his own ? 
It was with a strange sense of fear that he stepped out and 
on to the platform at Euston Station ; he glanced up and 
down : if she were suddenly to confront his eyes ! A day or 
two ago it seemed as if innumerable leagues of ocean lay be- 
tween him and her, so that the heart grew sick with thinking 
of the distance ; now that he was in the same town with her, 
he felt so close to her that he could almost hear her breathe. 

Major Stuart has enjoyed a sound night’s rest, and was 
now 7 possessed of quite enough good spirits and loquacity 
for two. He scarcely observed the silence of his companion. 
Together they rattled away through this busy, eager, im- 
mense throng, until they got down to the comparative quiet 
of Bury Street : and here they were fortunate enough to find 
not only that Macleod’s old rooms w r ere unoccupied, but that 
his companion could have the corresponding chambers on 
the floor above. They changed their attire ; had breakfast ; 
and then proceeded to discuss their plans for the day. 
Major Stuart observed that he w r as in no hurry to investigate 
the last modifications of the drying-machines. It would be 
necessary to write and appoint an interview before going 
down into Essex. He had several calls to make in London ; 
if Macleod did not see him before, they should meet at seven 
for dinner. Macleod saw him depart without any great regret. 

When he himself w 7 ent outside it w 7 as already noon, but 
the sun had not yet broken through the mist, and London 
seemed cold, and lifeless; and deserted. He did not know 
of any one of his former friends being left in the great and 


r r,_j MACLEOD OF DARE. 

lonely city. He walked along Piccadilly, and saw how many 
of the houses were shut up. The beautiful foliage of the Green 
Park had vanished ; and here and there a red leaf hung on 
a withered branch. And yet, lonely as he felt in walking 
through this crowd of strangers, he was nevertheless pos 
sessed with a nervous and excited fear that at any moment 
he might have to quail before the inquiring glance of a cer- 
tain pair of calm, large eyes. Was this, then, really Keith 
Macleod who was haunted by these fantastic troubles ? Had 
he so little courage that he dared not go boldly up to hei 
house and hold out his hand to her? As he walked along 
this thoroughfare, he was looking far ahead ; and when any 
tall and slender figure appeared that might by any possibility 
be taken for hers, he watched it with a nervous interest that 
had something of dread in it. So much for the high courage 
born of love ! 

It was with some sense of relief that he entered Hyde 
Park, for here there were fewer people. And as he walked 
on, the day brightened. A warmer light began to suffuse 
the pale mist lying over the black-green masses of rhododen- 
drons, the leafless trees, the damp grassplots, the empty 
chairs ; and as he was regarding a group of people on horse- 
back who, almost at the summit of the red hill, seemed about 
to disappear into the mist, behold ! a sudden break in the 
sky ; a silvery gleam shot athwart from the south, so that 
these distant figures grew almost black ; and presently the 
frail sunshine of November was streaming all over the red ride 
and the raw green of the grass. His spirits rose somewhat. 
When he reached the Serpentine, the sunlight was shining 
on the rippling blue water ; and there were pert young ladies 
of ten or twelve feeding the ducks; and away on the other 
side there was actually an island amidst the blue ripples ; 
and the island, if it was not as grand as Staffa nor as green 
as Ulva, was nevertheless an island, and it was pleasant 
enough to look at, with its bushes, and boats, and white 
swans. And then he bethought him of his first walks by the 
side of this little lake — when Oscar was the only creature in 
London he had to concern himself with — when each new day 
was only a brighter holiday than its predecessor — when he was 
of opinion that London was the happiest and most beautiful 
place in the world • and of that bright morning, too, when he 
walked through the empty streets at dawn, and came to the 
peacefully flowing river. 

These idle meditations were suddenly interrupted. Awaj 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


165 

along the bank of the lake his keen eye could make out a fig- 
ure, which, even at that distance, seemed so much to re- 
semble one he knew, that his heart began to beat quick. 
Then the dress — all of black, with a white hat and white 
gloves; was not that of the simplicity that had always sc 
great an attraction for her ? And he knew that she was sin- 
gularly fond of Kensington Gardens ; and might she not be 
going thither for a stroll before going back to the Piccadilly 
Theatre? He hastened his steps. He soon began to gain 
on the stranger ; and the nearer he got the more it seemed to 
him that he recognized the graceful walk and carriage of this 
slender woman. She passed under the archway of the bridge. 
When she had emerged from the shadow, she paused for a 
moment or two to look at the ducks on the lake ; and this 
arch of shadow seemed to frame a beautiful sunlit picture — 
the single figure against a background of green bushes. And 
if this were indeed she, how splendid the world would all be- 
come in a moment ! In his eagerness of anticipation he for- 
got his fear. What would she say ? Was he to hear her laugh 
once more, and take her hand ? Alas ! when he got close 
enough to make sure, he found that his beautiful figure be- 
longed to a somewhat pretty, middle-aged lady, who had 
brought a bag of scraps with her to feed the ducks. The 
world grew empty again. He passed on, in a sort of dream. 
He only knew he was in Kensington Gardens ; and that 
once or twice he had walked with her down those broad 
alleys in the happy summer-time of flowers, and sunshine, and 
the scent of limes. Now there was a pale blue mist in the 
open glades ; and a gloomy purple instead of the brilliant 
green of the trees ; and the cold wind that came across rus-» 
tied the masses of brown orange leaves that were lying scat- 
tered on the ground. He got a little more interested when 
he neared the Round Pond ; for the wind had fresnened ; 
and there were several handsome craft out there on the raging 
deep, braving well the sudden squalls that laid them right cn 
their beam-ends, and then let them come staggering and 
dripping up to windward. But there were two small boys 
there who had brought with them a tiny vessel of home-made 
build, with a couple of lugsails, a jib, and no rudder; and it 
was a great disappointment to them that this nondescript 
craft would move, if it moved at all, in an uncertain circle. 
Macleod came to their assistance — got a bit of floating stick, 
and carved out of it a rude rudder, altered the sails, and al- 
together put the ship into such sea-going trim that, when she 


66 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


was fa ; rly launched, she kept a pretty good course for the 
other s ; de, where doubtless she arrived in safety, and dis- 
charged her passengers and cargo. He was almost sorry to 
part with the two small ship-owners. They almost seemed 
to him the only people he knew in London. 

But surely he had not come all the way from Castle Dare 
to walk about Kensington Gardens ! What had become of 
that intense longing to see her — to hear her speak — that had 
made his life at home a constant torment and misery ? Well, 
it still held possession of him ; but all the same there was 
this indefinable dread that held him back. Perhaps he was 
afraid that he would have to confess to her the true reason 
for his having come to London. Perhaps he feared he might 
find her something entirely different from the creature of 
his dreams. At all events as he returned to his room 
and sat down by himself to think over all the things 
that might accrue from this step of his, he only got 
farther and farther into a haze# of nervous indecision. 
One thing only was clear to him : with all his hatred and 
jealousy of the theatre, to the theatre that night he would 
have to go. He could not know that she was so near to him 
— that at a certain time and place he would certainly see hex 
and listen to her — without going. He bethought him, more- 
over, of what he had once heard her say — that while she 
could fairly well make out the people in the galleries and 
boxes, those who were sitting in the stalls close to the or- 
chestra were, by reason of the glare of the foot-lights, quite 
invisible to her. Might he not, then, get into some corner 
where, himself unseen, he might be so near to her that he 
could almost stretch out his hand to her and take her hand, 
and tell, by its warmth and throbbing, that it was a real 
woman, and not a dream, that filled his heart ? 

Major Stuart was put off by some excuse, and at eight 
o clock Macleod walked up to the theatre. He drew near 
with some apprehension ; it almost seemed to him as though 
the man in the box-office recognized him, and knew the rea- 
son for his demanding one of those stalls. He got it easily 
enough ; there was no great run on the new piece, even 
though Miss Gertrude White was the heroine. He made his 
way along the narrow corridors ; he passed into the glare of 
the house ; he took his seat with his ears dinned by the loud 
music, and waited. He paid no heed to his neighbors ; he 
had already twisted up the programme so that he could not 


MACLEOD OE DARE. x 6> 

have read it if he had wished ; he was aware mostly of a 
sort of slightly choking sensation about the throat. 

When Gertrude White did appear — she came in unex- 
pectedly — he almost uttered a cry ; and it would have been 
a cry of delight For there was a flesh and blood woman, a 
thousand times more interesting, and beautiful, and lovable 
than all his fancied pictures of her. Look how she walks — 
how simply and gracefully she takes off her hat and places it 
on the table ! Look at the play of light, and life, and glad- 
ness on her face — at the eloquence of her eyes ! He had 
been thinking of her eyes as too calmly observant and 
serious : he saw them now, and was amazed at the difference 
— they seemed to have so much clear light in them, and 
pleasant laughter. He did not fear at all that she should 
see him. She was so near — he wished he could take her 
hand and lead her away. What concern had these people 
around with her ? This was Gertrude White — whom he 
knew. She was a friend of Mrs. Ross’s; she lived in a 
quiet little home, with an affectionate and provoking sister; 
she had a great admiration for Oscar the collie ; she had the 
whitest hand in the world as she offered you some salad at 
the small, neat table. What was she doing here — amidst all 
this glaring sham — before all these people ? “ Come away 

quickly / ” his heart cried to her. “ Quick — quick — let us get 
away together : there is some mistake — some illusion : outside 
you will breathe the fresh air , and get into the reality of the 
world again j and you will ask about Oscar, and young Ogil- 
vie : and one might hold your hand— your real warm hand — 
and perhaps hold it tight , and not give it up to any one whatso- 
ever l” His own hand was trembling with excitement. The 
tigerness of delight with which he listened to every word 
uttered by the low-toned and gentle voice was almost pain- 
ful ; and yet he knew it not. He was as one demented. 
This was Gertrude White — speaking, walking, smiling, a fire 
of beauty in her clear eyes ; her parted lips when she 
laughed letting the brilliant light just touch for an instant 
the milk-white teeth. This was no pale Rose Leaf at all — 
no dream or vision — but the actual laughing, talking, beauti- 
ful woman, who had more than ever of that strange grace 
and witchery about her that had fascinated him when first 
he saw her. She was so near that he could have thrown a 
rose to her — a red rose, full blown and full scented. He 
forgave the theatre — or rather he forgot it — in the unimagin- 
able delight of being so near her. And when at length she 


68 


MACLEOD OF DARE, 


left the stage, he had no jealousy of the poor people who re- 
mained there to go through their marionette business. He 
hoped they might all become great actors and actresses. He 
even thought he would try to get to understand the story 
— seeing he should have nothing else to do until Gertrude 
White came back again. 

Now Keith Macleod was no more ignorant or innocent 
than anybody else ; but there was one social misdemeanor — 
4 mere peccadillo, let us say — that was quite unintelligible 
to him. He could not understand how a man could go flirt- 
ing after a married woman ; and still less could he under- 
stand how a married woman should, instead of attending to 
her children and her house and such matters, make herself 
ridiculous by aping girlhood and pretending to have a lover. 
He had read a great deal about this, and he was told it was 
common ; but he did not believe it. The same authorities 
assured him that the women of England were drunkards in 
secret; he did not believe it. The same authorities insisted 
that the sole notion of marriage that occupied the head of an 
English girl of our own day was as to how she should sell 
her charms to the highest bidder ; he did not believe that 
either. And indeed he argued with himself, in considering 
to what extent books and plays could be trusted in such mat- 
ters, that in one obvious case the absurdity of these allega- 
tions was proved. If France were the France of French 
playwrights and novelists, the whole business of the country 
would come to a standstill. If it was the sole and constant 
occupation of every adult Frenchman to run after his 
neighbor’s wife, how could bridges be built, taxes collected, 
fortifications planned ? Surely a Frenchman must sometimes 
think, if only by accident, of something other than his neigh- 
bor’s wife ? Macleod laughed to himself in the solitude of 
Castle Dare, and contemptuously flung the unfinished paper- 
rovered novel aside. 

But what was his surprise and indignation — his shame, 
even — on finding that this very piece in which Gertrude 
White was acting was all about a jealous husband, and a gay 
and thoughtless wife, and a villain who did not at all silently 
plot her ruin, but frankly confided his aspirations to a mutual 
friend, and rather sought for sympathy; while she, Gertrude 
White herself, had, before all these people, to listen to ad- 
vances which, in her innocence, she was not supposed to un- 
derstand. As the play proceeded, his brows grew darker 
and darker. And the husband, who ought to have been tha 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


169 

guardian of his wife’s honor? Well, the husband in this 
rather poor play was a creation that is common in modern 
English drama. He represented one idea at least that the 
English playwright has certainly not borrowed from the 
French stage. Moral worth is best indicated by a sullen de- 
meanor. The man who has a pleasant manner is dangerous 
and a profligate ; the virtuous man — the true-hearted Eng- 
lishman — conducts himself as a boor, and proves the good- 
ness of his nature by his silence and his sulks. The hero ot 
this trumpery piece was of this familiar type. He saw the 
gay fascinatoi coming about his house ; but he was too proud 
and dignified to interfere. He knew of his young wife be- 
coming the byword of his friends ; but he only clasped his 
hands on his forehead, and sought solitude, and scowled as a 
man of virtue should. Macleod had paid but little attention 
to stories of this kind when he had merely read them ; but 
when the situation was visible — when actual people were be- 
fore him — the whole thing looked more real, and his sympa- 
thies became active enough. How was it possible, he thought, 
for this poor dolt to fume and mutter, and let his innocent 
wife go her own way alone and unprotected, when there was 
a door in the room, and a window by way of alternative ? 
There was one scene in which the faithless friend and the 
young wife were together in her drawing-room. He drew 
nearer to her; he spake softly to her; he ventured to take 
her hand. And while he was looking up appealingly to her, 
Macleod was regarding his face. He was calculating to him- 
self the precise spot between the eyes where a man’s knuckles 
would most effectually tell ; and his hand was clinched, and 
his teeth set hard. There was a look on his face which would 
have warned any gay young man that when Macleod should 
marry, his wife would need no second champion. 

But was this the atmosphere by which she was sur- 
rounded ? It is needless to say that the piece was proper 
enough. Virtue was triumphant ; vice compelled to sneak 
off discomfited. The indignant outburst of shame, and hor- 
ror, and contempt on the part of the young wife, when she 
came to know what the villain’s suave intentions really meant, 
gave Miss White an excellent opportunity of displaying her 
histrionic gifts ; and the public applauded vehemently ; but 
Macleod had no pride in her triumph. He was glacl when 
the piece ended — when the honest-hearted Englishman so far 
recovered speech as to declare that his confidence in his wife 
was restored, and so far forgot his stolidity of face and de- 


I/O 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


meatior as to point out to the villain the way to the dc jt in- 
stead of kicking him thither. Macleod breathed more freely 
when he knew that Gertrude White was now about to go away 
to the shelter and quiet of her own home. He went back to 
bis rooms, and tried to forget the precise circumstances in 
which he had just seen her. 

But not to forget herself. A new gladness filled his heart 
when he thought of her — thought of her not now as a dream 
or a vision, but as the living and breathing woman whose 
musical laugh seemed still to be ringing in his ears. He 
could see her plainly — the face all charged with life and love- 
liness ; the clear bright eyes that he had no longer any fear 
of meeting; the sweet mouth with its changing smiles. When 
Major Stuart came home that night he noticed a most marked 
change in the manner of his companion. Macleod was ex- 
cited, eager, talkative ; full of high spirits and’friendliness ; 
he joked his friend about his playing truant from his wife. 
He was anxious to know all about the major’s adventures, 
and pressed him to have but one other*cigar, and vowed that 
he would take him on the following evening to the only place 
in London where a good dinner could be had. There was 
gladness in his eyes, a careless satisfaction in his manner ; he 
was ready to do anything, go anywhere. This was more like 
the Macleod of old. Major Stuart came to the conclusion 
that the atmosphere of London had had a very good effect 
on his friend’s spirits. 

When Macleod went to bed that night there were wild 
and glad desires and resolves in his brain that might other- 
wise have kept him awake but lor the fatigue he had lately 
endured. He slept, and he dreamed ; and the figure that he 
saw in his dreams — though she was distant, somehow — had a 
look of tenderness in her eyes, and she held a red rose in her 
hand. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

DECLARATION. 

November though it was, next morning broke brilliantly 
over London. There was a fresh west wind blowing ; there 
was a clear sunshine filling the thoroughfares ; if one were on 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


1 7 1 

the lookout for picturesqueness even in Bury Street, was there 
not a fine touch of color where the softly red chimney-pots 
rose far away into the blue ? It was not possible to have 
always around one the splendor of the northern sea. 

And Macleod would not listen to a word his friend had to 
say concerning the important business that had brought them 
both to London. 

“ To-night, man — to-night — we will arrange it all to-night,” 
he would say, and there was a nervous excitement about his 
manner for which the major could not at all account. 

“ Sha’n’t I see you till the evening, then ? ” he asked. 

“ No,” Macleod said, looking anxiously out of the window, 
as if he feared some thunder-storm would suddenly shut out 
the clear light of this beautiful morning. “ I don’t know — 
perhaps I may be back before — but at any rate we meet at 
seven. You will remember — seven ? ” 

“ Indeed I am not likely to forget it,” his companion said, 
for he had been told about five-and-thirty times. 

It was about eleven o’clock when Macleod left the house. 
There was a grateful freshness about the morning even here 
in the middle of London. People looked cheerful ; Picca- 
dilly was thronged with idlers come out to enjoy the sunshine ; 
there was still a leaf or two fluttering on the trees in the 
square. Why should this man go eagerly tearing away 
northward in a hansom — with an anxious and absorbed look 
on his face — when everybody seemed inclined to saunter leis- 
urely along, breathing the sweet wind, and feeling the sun- 
light on their cheek ? 

It was scarcely half-past eleven when Macleod got out of 
the hansom, and opened a small gate, and walked up to the 
door of a certain house. He was afraid she had already gone. 
He was afraid she might resent his calling at so unusual an 
hour. He was afraid — of a thousand things. And when at 
last the trim maid-servant told him that Miss White was with- 
in, and asked him to step into the drawing-room, it was 
almost as one In a dream that he followed her. As one in a 
dream, truly ; but nevertheless he saw every object around 
him with a marvellous vividness. Next day he could recol- 
lect every feature of the room — the empty fireplace, the black- 
framed mirror, the Chinese fans, the small cabinets with their 
shelves of blue and white, and the large open book on the 
table, with a bit of tartan lying on it. These things seemed 
to impress themselves on his eyesight involuntarily ; for he 
was in reality intently listening for a soft footfall outside the 


172 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


door. He went forward to this open book. It was a volume 
of a work on the Highland clans — a large and expensive 
work that was not likely to belong to Mr. White. And this 
colored figure? It was the representative of the clan Mac- 
leod : and this bit of cloth that lay on the open book was of 
the Macleod tartan. He withdrew quickly, as though he had 
stumbled on some dire secret. He went to the window. He 
saw only leafless trees now, and withered flowers ; with the 
clear sunshine touching the sides of houses and walls that had 
in the summer months been quite invisible. 

There was a slight noise behind him ; he turned, and all 
the room seemed filled with a splendor of light and of life as 
she advanced to him — the clear, beautiful eyes full of glad- 
ness, the lips smiling, the hand frankly extended. And of a 
sudden his heart sank. Was it indeed of her, 

“ The glory of life, the beauty of the world,** 

that he had dared to dream wild and impossible dreams t He 
had set out that morning with a certain masterful sense that 
he would face his fate. He had “ taken the world for his 
pillow r ,” as the Gaelic stories say. But at this sudden revela- 
tion of the incomparable grace, and self-possession, and high 
loveliness of this beautiful creature, all his courage and 
hopes fled instantly, and he could only stammer out excuses 
for his calling so early. He was eagerly trying to make him- 
self out an ordinary visitor. He explained that he did not 
know but that she might be going to the theatre during the 
day. He was in London for a short time on business. It 
was an unconscionable hour. 

“ But I am so glad to see you ! ” she said, with a perfect 
sweetness, and her eyes said more than her w'ords. “ I 
should have been really vexed if I had heard you had passed 
through London without calling on us. Won’t you sit down?” 

As he sat dowm, she turned for a second, and without any 
embarrassment shut the big book that had been lying open 
on the table. 

“It is very beautiful weather,” she remarked — there was 
no tremor about her fingers, at all events, as she made secure 
the brooch that fastened the simple morning-dress at the 
neck, “ only it seems a pity to throw' aw^ay such beautiful 
sunshine on withered gardens and bare trees. We have 
some fine chrysanthemums, though ; but I confess I don’t 
like chrysanthemums myself. They come at a wrong time. 


MACLEO D OF DARE. 


*73 


They look unnatural. They only remind one of what is gone. 
If we are to have winter, we ought to have it out and out. 
The chrysanthemums always seem to me as if they were 
making a pretence — trying to make you believe that there 
was still some life left in the dead garden.” 

It was very pretty talk, all this about chrysanthemums, 
uttered in the low-toned, and gentle, and musical voice ; but 
somehow there was a burning impatience in his heart, and a 
bitter sense of hopelessness, and he felt as though he would 
u y o it in his despair. How could he sit there and listen to 
talk about chrysanthemums ? His hands were tightly clasped 
together; his heart was throbbing quickly ; there was a hum- 
ming in his ears, as though something there refused to hear 
about chrysanthemums. 

“ I — I saw you at the theatre last night,” said he. 

Perhaps it was the abruptness of the remark that caused 
the quick blush. She lowered her eyes. But all the same 
she said, with perfect self-possession, — 

“ Did you like the piece ? ” 

And he, too: was he not determined to play the part of 
an ordinary visitor ? 

“ I am not much of a judge,” said he, lightly. “ The 
drawing-room scene is very pretty. It is very like a draw- 
ing-room. I suppose those are real curtains, and real pic- 
tures ? ” 

“ Oh yes, it is all real furniture,” said she. 

Thereafter, for a second, blank silence. Neither dared 
to touch that deeper stage question that lay next their hearts. 
But when Keith Maeleod, in many a word of timid sugges- 
tion, and in the jesting letter he sent her from Castle Dare, 
had ventured upon that dangerous ground, it was not to talk 
about the real furniture of a stage drawing-room. However, 
was not this an ordinary morning call ? His manner — his 
speech — everything said so but the tightly-clasped hands, 
and perhaps too a certain intensity of look in the eyes, 
which seemed anxious and constrained. 

“ Papa, at least, is proud of our chrysanthemums,” said 
M iss Wh e, quickly getting away from the stage question. 
“ He is in the garden now. Will you go out and see him ? I 
am sorry Carry has gone to school.” 

She rose. He rose also, and he was about to lift his hat 
from the table, when he suddenly turned to her. 

“ A drowning man will cry out ; how can you prevent hi* 
crying out ? ” 


*74 


MACLEOD OF DARE, 


S-he was startled by the change in the sound of his voice, 
and still more by the almost haggard look of pain and en- 
treaty in his eyes. He seized her hand ; she would have 
withdrawn it, but she could not. 

“ You will listen. It is no harm to you. I must speak 
now, or I will die,” said he, quite wildly ; “ and if you think 
I am mad, perhaps you are right, but people have pity for a 
madman. Do you know why I have come to London ? It 
is to see you. I could bear it no longer — the fire that was 
burning and killing me. Oh, it is no use my saying that it is 
love for you — I do not know what it is — but only that I must 
tell you, and you cannot be angry with me — you can only 
pity me and go away. That is it— it is nothing to you — you 
can go away.” 

She burst into tears, and snatched her hand from him, 
and with both hands covered her face. 

“ Ah ! ” said he, “ is it pain to you that I should tell you 
of this madness ? But you will forgive me — and you will 
forget it — and it will not pain you to-morrow or any other 
day. Surely you are not to blame ! Do you remember the 
days when we became friends ? it seems a long time ago, but 
they were beautiful days, and you were very kind to me, and 
I was glad I had come to London to make so kind a friend. 
And it was no fault of yours that I went away with that sick- 
ness of the heart ; and how could you know about the burn- 
ing fire, and the feeling that if I did not see you I might as 
well be dead ? And I will call you Gertrude for once only. 
Gertrude, sit down now — for a moment or two — and do not 
grieve any more over what is only a misfortune. I want to 
tell you. After I have spoken, I will go away, and there 
will be an end of the trouble.” 

She did sit down ; her hands were clasped in piteous 
despair ; he saw the tear drops on the long, beautiful lashes. 

“ And if the drowning man cries ? ” said he. “ It is only 
a breath. The waves go over him, and the world is at peace. 
And oh ! do you know that I have taken a strange fancy of 
late — But I will not trouble you with that ; you may hear of 
it afterward ; you will understand, and know you have no 
blame, and there is an end of trouble. It is quite strange 
what fancies get into one’s head when one is — sick — heart- 
sick. Do you know what I thought this morning ? Will 
you believe it ? Will you let the drowning man cry out in his 
madness ? Why, I said to myself, 1 Up now, and have courage ! 
Up now, and be brave, and win a bride as they used to do 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 


1 75 


in the old stories.’ And it was you — it was you — my mad- 
ness thought of. ‘You will tell her,’ I said to myself, ‘ of 
all the love and the worship you have for her, and your 
thinking of her by day and by night ; and she is a woman, 
and she will have pity. And then in her surprise — why — 
But then you came into the room — it is only a little while 
ago — but it seems for ever and ever away now — and I have 
only pained you — ” 

She sprang to her feet ; her face white, her lips proud 
and determined. And for a second she put her hands on 
his shoulders ; and the wet, full, piteous eyes met his. But 
as rapidly she withdrew them — almost shuddering — and 
turned away ; and her hands were apart, each clasped, and 
she bowed her head. Gertrude White had never acted like 
that on any stage. 

And as for him, he stood absolutely dazed for a moment, 
not daring to think what that involuntary action might mean. 
He stepped forward, with a pale face and a bewildered air, 
and caught her hand. Her face she sheltered with the other, 
and she was sobbing bitterly. 

“ Gertrude,” he said, “ what is it ? What do you mean ? ” 

The broken voice answered, though her face was turned 
aside, — 

“ It is I who am miserable.” 

“ You who are miserable ? ” 

She turned and looked fair into his face, with her eyes 
all wet, and beautiful, and piteous. 

“ Can’t you see ? Don’t you understand ? ” she said 
“ Oh, my good friend ! of all the men in the world, you are 
the very last I would bring trouble to. And I cannot be a 
hypocrite with you. I feared something of this ; and now 
the misery is that I cannot say to you, ‘ Here, take my hand. 
It is yours. You have won your bride.’ I cannot do it. If 
we were both differently situated, it might be otherwise — ” 

It might be otherwise ! ” he exclaimed, with a sudden 
wonder. “ Gertrude, what do you mean ? Situated ? Is it 
only that ? Look me in the face, now, and as you are a true 
woman tell me — if we were both free from all situation — if 
there were no difficulties — nothing to be thought of — could 
you give yourself to me ? Would you really become my wife 
— you who have all the world flattering you ? ” 

She dared not look him in the face. There was some 
thing about the vehemence of his manner that almost terri 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


*7 6 

fied her. But she answered bravely, in the sweet, low, trem- 
bling voice, and with downcast eyes, — 

“ If I were to become the wife of any one, it is your wife 
I would like to be ; and I have thought of it. Oh, I cannol 
be a hypocrite with you when I see the misery I have brought 
you ! And I have thought of giving up all my present life, 
and all the wishes and dreams I have cherished, and going 
away and living the simple life of a woman. And under 
whose guidance would I try that rather than yours? You 
made me think. But it is all a dream — a fancy. It is im- 
possible. It would only bring miserv to you and to me — ” 

“ But why — but why? ” he eagerl) exclaimed ; and there 
was a new light in his face. “ Gertrude, if you can say so 
much, why not say all ? What are obstacles ? There can be 
none if you have the fiftieth part of the love for me that I 
have for you ! Obstacles ! ” And he laughed with a strange 
laugh. 

She looked up in his face. 

“ And would it be so great a happiness for you ? That 
would make up for all the trouble I have brought you ? ” she 
said, wistfully ; and his answer was to take both her hands 
in his, and there was such a joy in his heart that he could 
not speak at all. But she only shook her head somewhat sadly, 
and withdrew her hands, and sat down again by the table. 

“It is wrong of me even to think of it,” she said. “ To- 
day I might say ‘yes,’ and to-morrow? You might inspire 
me with courage now ; and afterward — I should only bring 
you further pain. I do not know myself. I could not be 
sure of myself. How could I dare drag you into such a ter- 
rible risk ? It is better as it is. The pain you are suffering 
will go. You will come to call me your friend ; and you will 
thank me that I refused. Perhaps I shall suffer a little too,” 
she added, and once more she rather timidly looked up into 
his face. “ You do not know the fascination of seeing your 
scheme of life, that you have been dreaming about, just sud- 
denly put before you for acceptance ; and you want all your 
common sense to hold back. But I know it will be better — 
bettet for both of us. You must believe me.” 

“1 do not believe you, and I will not believe you,” said 
he, with a proud light in his eyes ; “ and now you have said 
so much I am not going to take any refusal at all. Not now. 
Gertrude, I have courage for both of us ; when you are timid, 
you will take my hand. Say it, then ! A word only 1 You 
have already said all but that ! ” 


MACLEOD OF DALE, 


77 


He seemed scarcely the same man who had appealed to 
her with the wild eyes and the haggard face. His look was 
rad hint and proud. He spoke with a firm voice ; and yet 
there was a great tenderness in his tone. 

“ I am sure you love me,” she said, in a low voice. 

“ Yon will see,” he rejoined, with a firm confidence. 

“ And I am not going to requite your love ill. You arc 
fbq vehement. You think of nothing but the one end to it all, 
Bm l am a woman, and women are taught to be patient. 
Now you must let me think about all you have said.” 

“ And you do not quite refuse ? ” said he. 

She hesitated for a moment or two. 

“ 1 must think for you as well as for myself,” she said, 
in a scarcely audible voice. “ Give me time. Give me till 
the end of the week.” 

“ At this hour I will come.” 

“ And you will believe I have decided for the best — that 
I have tried hard to be fair to you as well as myself ? ” 

“ I know you are too true a woman for anything else,” 
he said ; and then he added, “ Ah, well, now, you have had 
enough misery for one morning ; you must dry your eyes 
now, and we will go out into the garden ; and if I am not to 
Say anything of all my gratitude to you — why ? Because I 
hope there will be many a year to do that in, my angel of 
goodness ! ” 

She went to fetch a light shawl and a hat ; he kept turn- 
ing over the things on the table, his fingers trembling, his 
eyes seeing nothing. If they did see anything, it was a 
vision of the brown moors near Castle Dare, and a beautiful 
creature, clad all in cream-color and scarlet, drawing near 
the great gray stone house. 

She came into the room again ; joy leaped to his eyes. 

“ Will you follow me ? ” 

There was a strangely subdued air about her manner as 
she led him to where her father was ; perhaps she was rather 
tired after the varied emotions she had experienced ; per- 
haps she was still anxious. He was not anxious. It was in 
a glad way that he addressed the old gentleman who stood 
there with a spade in his hand. 

“It is indeed a beautiful garden,” Macleod said, looking 
round on the withered leaves and damp soil ; “ no wonder 
you look after it yourself.” 

“ I am not gardening,” the old man said, peevishly. “ I 
have been putting a knife in the ground— burying the hatchet; 


MACLEOD OF DARE 


* 7 * 

you might call it. Fancy ! A man sees an old hunting-knife 
in a shop at Gloucester — a hunting-knife of the time f 
Charles 1., with a beautifully carved ivory handle: and he 
thinks he will make a present of it to me. What does he do 
but go and have it ground, and sharpened, and polished until 
it looks like something sent from Sheffield the day before 
yesterday ! ” 

“ You ought to be very pleased, pappy, you got it at all,* 
said Gertrude White ; but she was looking elsewhere, and 
rather absently too. 

“ And so you have buried it to restore the tone ? ” 

“ I have,” said the old gentleman, marching off with the 
shovel to a sort of out house. 

Macleod speedily took his leave. 

“ Saturday next at noon,” said he to her, with no timidity 
in his voice. 

“ Yes,” said she, more gently, and with downcast eyes. 

He walked away from the house — he knew not whither. 
He saw nothing around him. He walked hard, sometimes 
talking to himself. In the afternoon he found himself in a 
village in Berkshire, close by which, fortunately, there was a 
railway station ; and he had just time to get back to keep 
his appointment with Major Stuart. 

They sat down to dinner. 

“ Come, now, Macleod, tell me where you have been all 
day,” said the rosy-faced soldier, carefully tucking his nap- 
kin under his chin. 

Macleod burst out laughing. 

“ Another day — another day, Stuart, I will tell you all 
about it. It is the most ridiculous story you ever heard in 
your life ! ” 

It was a strange sort of laughing, for there were tears m 
the younger man’s eyes. But Major Stuart was too busy to 
uotice ; and presently they began to talk about the real and 
serious object of their expedition to London. 


MACLEOD OF DARF. 


*79 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

A RED ROSE. 

From nervous and unreasoning dread to overweening 
and extravagant confidence there was but a single bound. 
After the timid confession she had made, how could he have 
any further fear ? He knew now the answer she must cer- 
tainly give him. What but the one word “ yes ” — musical as 
the sound of summer seas — could fitly close and atone for 
all that long period of doubt and despair ? And would she 
murmur it with the low, sweet voice, or only look it with the 
clear and lambent eyes? Once uttered, anyhow, surely the 
glad message would instantly wing its flight away to the far 
North ; and Colonsay would hear ; and the green shores of 
Ulva would laugh ; and through all the wild dashing and 
roaring of the seas there would be a soft ringing as of 
wedding-bells. The Gometra men will have a good glass 
that night ; and who will take the news to distant Fladda and 
rouse the lonely Dutchman from his winter sleep ? There is 
a bride coming to Castle Dare ! 

When Norman Ogilvie had even mentioned marriage, 
Macleod had merely shaken his head and turned away. 
There was no issue that way from the wilderness of pain and 
trouble into which he had strayed. She was already wedded 
— to that cruel art that was crushing the woman within her. 
Her ways of life and his were separated as though by un- 
known oceans. And how was it possible that so beautiful a 
woman — surrounded by people who petted and flattered her 
— should not already have her heart engaged ? Even if she 
were free, how could she have bestowed a thought on him — 
a passing stranger — a summer visitor — the acquaintance of 
an hour ? 

But no sooner had Gertrude White, to his sudden won- 
der, and joy, and gratitude, made that stammering confession, 
than the impetuosity of his passion leaped at once to the goal. 
He w'ould not hear of any obstacles. He would not look at 
them. If she would but take his hand, he would lead her and 
guard her, and all would go well. And it was to this effect that 
he wrote to her day after day, pouring out all the confidences 


jSo MACLEOD OF DARE. 

of his heart to her, appealing to her, striving to convey to her 
something of his own high courage and hope. Strictly 
speaking, perhaps, it was not quite fair that he should thus 
have disturbed the calm of her deliberation. Had he not 
given her till the end of the week to come to a deci- 
sion ? But when, in his eagerness, he thought of some 
further reason, some further appeal, how could he remain 
silent ? With the prize so near, he could not let it slip from 
his grasp through the consideration of niceties of conduct. 
By rights he ought to have gone up to Mr. White and begged 
for permission to pay his addresses to the old gentleman’s 
daughter. He forgot all about that. He forgot that Mr. 
White was in existence. All his thinking from morning till 
night— and through much of the night too — was directed on 
her answer — the one small word filled with a whole worldful 
of light and joy. 

“ If you will only say that one little word,” he wrote to 
her, “ then everything else becomes a mere trifle. If there 
are obstacles, and troubles, and what not, we will meet 
them one by one, and dispose of them. There can be no ob- 
stacles, if we are of one mind; and we shall be of one mind 
sure enough, if you will say you will become my wife ; for 
there is nothing I will not consent to ; and I shall only be 
too glad to have opportunities of showing my great gratitude 
to you for the sacrifice you must make. I speak of it as a 
sacrifice ; but I do not believe it is one — whatever you may 
think now — and whatever natural regret you may feel — you 
will grow to feel there was no evil done you when you were 
drawn away from the life that now surrounds you. And if 
you were to say ‘ I will become your wife only on one con- 
dition — that I am not asked to abandon my career as an ac- 
tress,’ still I would say * Become my wife.’ Surely matters 
of arrangement are mere trifles — after you have given me 
your promise. And when you have placed your hand in 
mine (and the motto of the Macleods is Hold Fasf), we can 
study conditions, and obstacles, and the other nonsense that 
our friends are sure to suggest, at our leisure. I think I al- 
ready hear you say ‘ Yes;’ I listen and listen, until I almost 
hear your voice. And if it is to be 1 Yes,’ will you wear a 
red rose in your dress on Saturday ? I shall see that before 
you speak. I will know what your massage is, even if there 
are people about. One red rose only.” 

“ Macleod,” said Major Stuart to him, “ did you come 
to London to write love-letters ? ” 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


1 Si 

“ Love-letters ! ” he said, angrily; but then he laughed 
“ And what did you come to London for? ” 

“ On a highly philanthropic errand,” said the other, gravely, 
“ which I hope to see fulfilled to-morrow. And if we have a 
day or two to spare, that is well enough, for one cannot be 
always at work ; but I did not expect to take a holiday in 
the company of a man who spends three-fourths of the day 
at a writing-desk.” 

“ Nonsense 1 ” said Macleod, though there was some tell- 
tale color in his face. “All the writing I have done to-day 
would no' fill up twenty minutes. And if I am a dull com- 
panion, is not Norman Ogilvie coming to dinner to-night to 
amuse you ? ” 

While they were speaking, a servant brought in a card. 

“Ask the gentleman to come up,” Macleod said, and 
then he turned to his companion. “ What an odd thing ! I 
was speaking to you a minute ago about that drag accident. 
And here is Beauregard himself.” 

The tall, rough-visaged man — stooping slightly as though 
he thought the doorway w r as a trifle low — came forward and 
shook hands with Macleod, and was understood to inquire 
about his health, though what he literally said was, “ Hawya, 
Macleod, hawya?” 

“ I heard you were in town from Paulton — you remember, 
Paulton, who dined with you at Richmond. He saw you in 
a hansom yesterday ; and I took my chance of finding you 
in your old quarters. What are you doing in London ? ” 

Macleod briefly explained. 

“ And you ? ” he asked, “ what has brought you to Lon- 
don ? I thought you and Lady Beauregard were in Ireland.” 

“ We have just come over, and go down to Weatherill 
to-morrow. Won’t you come down and shoot a pheasant or 
two before you return to the Highlands ? ” 

“ Well, the fact is,” Macleod said, hesitatingly, “ my 
friend and I — by the way, let me introduce you — Lord Beau- 
regard, Major Stuart — the fact is, we ought to go back 
directly after we have settled this business.” 

“ But a day or two won’t matter. Now, let me see. 
Plymley comes to us on Monday next, I think. We could 
get. up a party for you on the Tuesday; and if your friend 
will come with you, we shall be six guns, which I always 
think the best number.” 

The gallant major showed no hesitation whatever. The 
K*nce of blazing away at a whole atmosphereful of pheas- 


I 8 2 


MACLEOD OF DaRE 


ants— for so he construed the invitation — did not often 
come in his way. 

“ 1 am quite sure a day or two won't make any differ- 
t. said he, quickly. “In any case we were not thinking 
<L going till Monday, and that would only mean an extra 
day.” 

“ Very well,” Macleod said. 

“ Then you will come down to dinner on the Monday 
evening. I will see if there is no alteration in the trains, 
and drop you a note with full instructions. Is it a bargain ? ’* 

“ It is.” 

“ All right. I must be off now. Good-by.” 

Major Stuart jumped to his feet with great alacrity, and 
warmly shook hands with the departing stranger. Then, 
when the door was shut, he went through a pantomimic ex- 
pression of bringing down innumerable pheasants from every 
corner of the ceiling — with an occasional aim at the floor, 
where an imaginary hare was scurrying by. 

“ Macleod, Macleod,” said he, “ you are a trump. You 
may go on writing love-letters from now till next Monday af- 
ternoon. I suppose we will have a good dinner, too ? ” 

“ Beauregard is said to have the best chef in London ; and 
J don’t suppose they would leave so important a person in 
Ireland.” 

“ You have my gratitude, Macleod — eternal, sincere, un- 
bounded,” the major said, seriously. 

“ But it is not I who am asking you to go and massacre 
a lot of pheasants,” said Macleod ; and he spoke rather ab- 
sently, for he was thinking of the probable mood in which he 
would go down to Weatherill. One of a generous gladness 
and joy, the outward expression of an eager and secret hap- 
piness to be known by none ? Or what if there were no red 
rose at all on her bosom when she advanced to meet him with 
sad eyes ? 

They went down into Essex next day. Major Stuart was 
surprised to find that his companion talked not so much about 
the price of machines for drying saturated crops as about the 
conjectural cost of living in the various houses they saw from 
afar, set amidst the leafless trees of November. 

“ You don’t think of coming to live in England, do you ? ” 
said he. 

“ No — at least, not at present,” Macleod said. ‘ Of course, 
one never knows what may turn up. I don’t propose to live 
at Dare all my life.” 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


183 

“ Your wife might want to live in England,” the major 
said, coolly. 

Macleod started and stared. 

“ You have been writing a good many letters of late,” said 
his companion. 

“ And is that all ? ” said Macleod, answering him in the 
Gaelic. “ You know the proverb — Tossing the head will 
not make the boat row. I am not married yet.” 

The result of this journey was, that they agreed to pur- 
chase one of the machines for transference to the rainy re- 
gions of Mull ; and then they returned to London. This was 
on Wednesday. Major Stuart considered they had a few 
days to idle by before the battue ; Macleod was only excited- 
ly aware that Thursday and Friday — two short November days 
— came between him and that .decision which he regarded 
with an anxious joy. 

The day went by in a sort of dream. A pale fog hung 
over London ; and as he wandered about he saw the tall 
houses rise faintly blue into the gray mist ; and the great 
coffee-colored river, flushed with recent rains, rolled down 
between the pale embankments ; and the golden-red globe 
of the sun, occasionally becoming visible through the mottled 
clouds, sent a ray of fire here and there on some window- 
pane or lamp. 

In the course of his devious wanderings — for he mostly 
went about alone — he made his way, with great trouble and 
perplexity, to the court in which the mother of Johnny Wickes 
lived ; and he betrayed no shame at all in confronting the 
poor woman — half starved, and pale, and emaciated as she 
was — whose child he had stolen. It was in a'tone of quite 
gratuitous pleasantry that he described to her how the small 
lad was growing brown and fat ; and he had the audacity to 
declare to her that as he proposed to pay the boy the sum of 
one shilling per week at present, he might as well hand over 
to her the three months’ pay which he had already earned. 
And the woman was so amused at the notion of little Johnny 
Wickes being able to earn anything at all, that, when she re- 
ceived the money and looked at it, she burst out crying; 
and she had so little of the spirit of the British matron, and so 
little regard for the laws of her country, that she invoked 
Heaven knows what — Heaven does know what — blessings 
on the head of the very man who had carried her child into 
slavery. 

“ And the first time I am going over to Oban,” said he. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


184 

‘ I will take him with me, and I will get a photograph of him 
made, and I will send you the photograph. And did you get 
the rabbits ? ” said he. 

“ Yes, indeed, sir, I got the rabbits.” 

“ And it is a very fine poacher your son promises to be. 
for he got every one of the rabbits with his own snare, though 
I am thinking it was old Hamish was showing him how to 
use it. And I will say good-by to you now.” 

The poor woman seemed to hesitate for a second. 

“ If there was any sewing, sir,” wiping her eyes with the 
corner of her apron, “ that I could do for your good lady, 
sir — ” 

“ But I am not married,” said he, quickly. 

“ Ah, well, indeed, sir,” she said with a sigh. 

“But if there is any lace^or sewing, or anything like that 
you can send to my mother, I have no doubt she will pay you 
for it as well as any one else — ” 

“ I was not thinking of paying, sir ; but to show you I 
am not ungrateful,” was the answer ; and if she said him ■ 
grateful , what matter ? She was a woman without spirit ; she 
had sold away her son. 

From this dingy court he made his way round to Covent 
Garden market, and he went into a florist’s shop there. 

“ I want a bouquet,” said he to the neat-handed maiden 
who looked up at him. 

“ Yes, sir,” said she ; “ will you look at those in the 
window ? ” 

“ But I want one,” said he, “ with a single rose — a red 
rose — in the centre.” 

This proposition did not find favor in the eyes of the 
jmild-mannered artist, who explained to him that something 
more important and ornate was necessary in the middle of 
a bouquet. He could have a circle of rose-buds, if he liked, 
outsidi* ; and a great white lily or camellia in the centre. He 
could have — this thing and the next ; she showed him how 
she could combine the features of this bouquet with those of 
the next. But the tall Highlander remained obdurate. 

“Yes,* said he, “I tl ink you are jpiite right. You are 
quite right, I am sure. But it is this that I would rather have 
— only one red rose in the centre, and you can make the rest 
what you -ike, only I think if they were smaller flowers, and 
all white, that would be better.” 

“Very well,” said the young lady, with a pleasing smile 
fshe was rather good-looking herself), “ I will try what I caD 


MACLECD OF DARE. 


1 S 5 

do for you if you don’t mind waiting. Will you take a 
chair ? ” 

He was quite amazed by the dexterity with which those 
nimble fingers took from one cluster and another cluster the 
very flowers he would himself have chosen ; and by the rapid 
fashion in which they were dressed, fitted, and arranged. 
The work of art grew apace. 

“ But you must have something to break the white,” said 
she, smiling, “ or it will look too like a bride’s bouquet ; ” and 
with that — almost in the twinkling of an eye — she had put a 
circular line of dark purple-blue through the cream-white 
blossoms. It was a splendid rose that lay in the midst of 
all that beauty. 

“ What price would you like to give, sir ? ” the gentle 
Phyllis had said at the very outset. “ Half a guinea — fifteen 
shillings ? ” 

“ Give me a beautiful rose,” said he, “ and I do not mind 
what the price is.” 

And at last the lace-paper was put round ; and a little 
further trimming and setting took place; and finally the bou- 
quet was swathed in soft white wool and put .nto a basket. 

“ Shall I take the address ? ” said the young lady no 
doubt expecting that he would write it on the back of one of 
his cards. But no. He dictated the address, and then lay 
down the money. The astute young person was puzzled — 
perhaps disappointed. 

“Is there no message, sir ? ” said she — “ no card ? ” 

“ No ; but you must be sure to have it delivered to-night.” 

“ It shall be sent off at once,” said she, probably thinking 
that this was a very foolish young man who did not know the 
ways of the world. The only persons of whom she had any 
experience who sent bouquets without a note or a letter were 
husbands, who were either making up a quarrel with their 
wives or going to the opera, and she had observed that on 
such occasions the difference between twelve-and-sixpence 
md fifteen shillings was regarded and considered. 

He slept but little that night; and next morning he got 
up nervous and trembling, like a drunker man, with half the 
courage and confidence, that had so long sustained him, 
gone. Major Stuart went out early. He kept pacing about 
the room until the frightfully slow half-hours went by ; he 
hated the clock on the mantelpiece. And then, by a strong 
effort of will, he delayed starting until he should barely have 
time to reach her house by twelve o’clock, so that he should 


i86 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


have the mad delight of eagerly wishing the hansom had a 
Btill more furious speed. He had chosen his horse well. It 
wanted five minutes to the appointed hour when he arrived 
at the house. 

Did this trim maid-servant know ? Was there anything 
of welcome in the demure smile ? He followed her ; his face 
was pale, though he knew it not ; in the dusk of the room he 
was left alone. 

But what was this on the table ? He almost uttered a 
cry as his bewildered eyes fixed themselves on it. The very 
bouquet he had sent the previous evening; and behold — 
behold! — the red rose wanting! And then, at the same 
moment, he turned ; and there was a vision of something all 
in white — that came to him timidly — all in white but for the 
red star of love shining there. And she did not speak at all ; 
but she buried her head in his bosom ; and he held her hands 
tight. 

And now what will Ulva say — and the lonely shores of 
Fladda — and the distant Dutchman roused from his winter 
sleep amidst the wild waves ? Far away over the white 
sands of Iona — and the sunlight must be shining there now 
— there is many a sacred spot fit for the solemn plighting of 
lovers’ vows ; and if there is any organ wanted, what more 
noble than the vast Atlantic rollers booming into the Bourg 
and Gribun caves ? Surely they must know already ; for the 
sea-birds have caught the cry ; and there is a sound all 
through the glad rushing of the morning seas like the sound 
of wedding-bells. There is a bride coming to Castle Dare — the 
islands listen ; and the wild sea calls again ; and the green 
shores of Ulva grow greener still in the sunlight. There is 
a bride coming to Castle Dare ; and the bride is dressed all 
in white — only she wears a red rose. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

ENTHUSIASMS 

She was seated alone, her arms on the table, her head 
bent down. There was no red rose now in the white morn- 
ing-dress, for she had given it to him when he left. The 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


*■ 8 ? 

frail November sunshine streamed into the room and pm a 
shimmer of gold on the soft brown of her hair. 

It was a bold step she had taken, without counsel of any 
one. Her dream was now to give up everything that site 
had hitherto cared about, and to go away into private life to 
play the part of Lady Bountiful. And if doubts about the 
strength of her own resolution occasionally crossed he. 
mind, could she not appeal for aid and courage to him who 
would, always be by her side ? When she became a Macleod, 
she would have to accept the motto of the Macleods. Thai 
motto is, Hold Fast. 

She heard her sister come into the house, and she raised 
her head. Presently Carry opened the door; and it was 
clear she was in high spirits. 

“ Oh, Mopsy,” said she — and this was a pet name she 
gave her sister only when the latter was in great favor — “ did 
you ever see such a morning in November ? Don’t you think 
papa might take us to Kew Gardens ? ” 

“ I want to speak to you, Carry — come here,” she said, 
gravely ; and the younger sister went and stood by the 
table. “You know you and I are thrown very much on each 
other ; and we ought to have no secrets from each other ; and 
we ought to be always quite sure of each other’s .sympathy. 
Now, .Carry', you must be patient, you must be kind: if l 
don’t get sympathy from you, from whom should I get it ? ” 

Carry withdrew a step, and her manner instantly changed. 
Gertrude White was a very clever actress ; but she had never 
been able to impose on her younger sister. This imploring 
look was all very fine ; this appeal for sympathy was pathetic 
enough; but both only awakened Carry’s suspicions. In 
their ordinary talk sisters rarely use such formal words as 
“ sympathy.” 

•“ What do you mean ? ” said she, sharply. 

“ There — already ! ” exclaimed the other, apparently in 
deep disappointment. “ Just when I most need your kind* 
ness and sympathy, you show yourself most unfeeling — ” 

“ I wish you would tell me what it is all about,” Carry 
said, impatiently. 

The elder sister lowered her eyes, and her fingers began 
to work with a paper-knife that was lying there. Perhaps 
this was only a bit of stage-business ; or perhaps she was 
really a little apprehensive about the effect of her announce- 
ment. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


1 88 


“ Carry,” she said, in a low voice, “ I have promised to 
marry Sir Keith Macleod. 

Carry uttered a slight cry of horror and surprise ; but 
this too was only a bit of stage effect, for she had fully anti- 
cipated the disclosure. 

“Well, Gertrude White ! ” said she, apparently when she 
had recovered her breath. “ Well — I — I — I — never ! ” 

Her language was not as imposing as her gestures ; but 
then nobody had written the part for her ; whereas her very 
tolerable acting was nature’s own gift. 

“ Now, Carry, be reasonable — don’t be angry : what is 
the use of being vexed with what is past recalling ? Any 
other sister would be very glad at such a time — ” These 
were the hurried and broken sentences with which the cul- 
prit sought to stave off the coming wrath. But, oddly enough, 
Miss Carry refrained from denunciations or any other stormy 
expression of her anger and scorn. She suddenly assumed 
a cold and critical air. 

“ I suppose,” said she, “ before you allowed Sir Keith 
Macleod to ask you to become his wife, you explained to him 
our circumstances.” 

“ I don’t understand you.” 

“You told him, of course, that you had a ne’er-do-well 
brother in Australia, who might at any moment appear and 
disgrace the whole family ? ” 

“ I told him nothing of the kind. I had no opportunity of 
getting into family affairs. And if I had, what has Tom got 
to do with Sir Keith Macleod ? I had forgotten his very ex- 
istence — no wonder, after eight years of absolute silence.” 

But Carry, having fired this shot, was off after other amu- 
nition. 

“You told him you had sweethearts before ? ” 

“ No, I did not,” said Miss Gertrude White, warmly, “ be- 
cause it isn’t true.” 

“What ?— Mr. Howson ? ” 

“ The orchestra leader in a provincial theatre ! ” 

“ Oh yes ! but you did not speak so contemptuously of 
him then. Why, you made him believe he was another Men- 
delssohn ! ” 

“ You are talking nonsense.” 

“ And Mr. Brook — you no doubt told him that Mr. Brook 
called on papa, and asked him to go down to Doctors’ Com- 
mons and see for himself what money he would have———” 

u And what then ? How can I prevent any idiotic boy who 


MACLEOD OF DARE. ^ 

chooses to turn me into a heroine from going and making a 
fool of himself ? ” 

“ Oh, Gertrude White !” said Carry, solemnly. “Will 
you sit there and tell me you gave him no encouragement ? ” 

“ This is mere folly ! ” the elder sister said, petulantly; as 
she rose and proceeded to put straight a few of the things 
about the room. “ I had hoped better things of you, Carry. 
I tell you of an important step I have taken in my life, and 
you bring out a lot of tattle and nonsense. However, I can 
act for myself. It is true, I had imagined something different. 
When I marry, of course, we shall be separated. I had 
looked forward to the pleasure of showing you my new 
home.” 

“ Where is it to be ? ” 

“ Wherever my husband wishes it to be,” she answered, 
proudly ; but there was a conscious flush of color in her face 
as she uttered — for the first time — that word. 

“ In the Highlands, I suppose, for he is not rich enough 
to have two houses,” said Carry; which showed that she had 
been pondering over this matter before. “ And he has al- 
ready got his mother and his old-maid sister, or whatever she 
is, in the house. You will make a pretty family ! ” 

This was a cruel thrust. When Macleod had spoken of 
the far home overlooking the Northern seas, what could be 
n re beautiful than his picture of the noble and silver-haired 
dame, and of the gentle and loving cousin who was the friend 
and counsellor of the poor people around ? And when he 
had suggested that some day or other Mr. White might bring 
his daughter to these remote regions to see all the wonders 
and the splendors of them, he told her how the beautiful 
mother would take her to this place and to that place, and 
how that Janet Macleod would pet and befriend her, and 
perhaps teach her a few words of the Gaelic, that she might 
have a kindly phrase for the passer-by. But this picture of 
Carry’s ! — a houseful of wrangling women ! 

It she had had her will just then, sh& would instantlj 
have recalled Macleod, and placed his courage and careless 
confidence between her and this cruel criticism. She had 
never, in truth, thought of these things. His pertinacity 
would not allow her. He had kept insisting that the only 
point for her to consider was whether she had sufficient love 
for him to enable her to answer his great love for her with 
the one word “ Yes.” Thereafter, according to his showing, 
everything else was a mere trifle. Obstacles, troubles, de- 


190 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


lays ?— he would hear of nothing of the sort. And although 
while he was present, she had been inspired by something oi 
this confident feeling, now when she was attacked in his ab- 
sence she felt herself defenceless. 

“ You may be as disagreeable as you like, Carry,” said 
she, almost wearily. “ I cannot help it. 1 never could un- 
desrtandy our dislike to Sir Keith Macleod.” 

“ Cannot you understand,” said the younger sister, with 
some show of indignation, “ that if you are to marry at all, I 
shor’d like to see you marry an Englishman, instead of a 
great Highland savage who thinks about nothing but beasts' 
skins. And why should you marry at all, Gertrude White ? 
I suppose he will make you leave the theatre ; and instead 
of being a famous woman whom everybody admires and talks 
about, you will be plain Mrs. Nobody, hidden away in some 
place, and no one will ever hear of you again ! Do you know 
what you are doing ? Did you ever hear of any woman mak- 
ing such a fool of herself before ? ” 

So far from being annoyed by this strong language, the 
elder sister seemed quite pleased. 

“ Do you know, Carry, I like to hear you talk like that,” 
she said, with a smile. “ You almost persuade me that I am 
not asking him for too great a sacrifice, after all — ” 

“A sacrifice ! On his part !” exclaimed the younger sis- 
ter; and then she added, with decision: “but it shan’t be, 
Gertrude W’hite ! I will go to papa.” 

“ Pardon me,” said the elder sister, who was nearer the 
door, “ you need not trouble yourself : I am going now.” 

She went into the small room which was called her 
father’s study, but which was in reality a sort of museum. 
She closed the door behind her. 

“ I have just had the pleasure of an interview with Carry, 
papa,” she said, with a certain bitterness of tone, “ and she 
has tried hard to make me as miserable as I can be. If I 
am to have another dose of it from you, papa, I may as well 
have it at once. I have promised to marry Sir Keith Mac- 
leod.” 

She sank down in an easy-chair. There was a look on 
her face which plainly said, “ Now do your worst ; I cannot 
be more wretched than I am.” 

“ You have promised to marry Sir Keith Macleod ?” he 
repeated, slowly, and fixing his eyes on her face. 

He did not break into any rage, and accuse Macleod of 
treachery oi her of filial disobedience. He knew that shf 


AfACLEOD OF DARE . 


191 

was familiar with that kind of thing. What he had to deal 
with was the immediate future, not the past. 

“ Yes,” she answered. 

“ Well,” he said, with the same deliberation of tone, “ I 
suppose you have not come to me for advice, since you have 
acted so far for yourself. If I were to give you advice, how- 
ever, it would be to break your promise as soon as you de* 
cently can, both for his sake and for your own.” 

“ f thought you would say so,” she said, with a sort of 
desperate mirth. “ I came to have all my wretchedness 
heaped on me at once. It is a very pleasing sensation. I 
wonder if I could express it on the stage. That would be 
making use of my new experiences — as you have taught 
me ” 

But here she burst into tears ; and then got up and 
walked impatiently about the room ; and finally dried her 
eyes, with shame and mortification visible on her face. 

“ What have you to say to me, papa ? I am a fool to mind 
what a schoolgirl says.” 

“ I don’t know that I have anything to say,” he observed, 
calmly. “ You know your own feelings best.” 

And then he regarded her attentively. 

“ I suppose when you marry you will give up the stage.” 

“ I suppose so,” she said, in a low voice. 

“ I should doubt,” he said, with quite a dispassionate air, 
“ your being able to play one part for a lifetime. You might 
get tired — and that would be awkward for your husband and 
yourself. I don’t say anything about your giving up all your 
prospects, although I had great pride in you and a still 
greater hope. That is for your own consideration. If you 
think you will be happier — if you are sure you will have no 
regret — if, as I say, you think you can play the one part for 
a lifetime — well and good.” 

“ And you are right,” she said, bitterly, “ to speak of me 
as an actress, and not as a human being. I must be playing 
a part to the end, I suppose. Perhaps so. Well, I hope 1 
shall please my smaller audience as well as I seem to have 
pleased the bigger one. 

Then she altered her tone. 

“ I told you, papa, the other day of my having seen that 
child run over and brought back to the woman who v as 
standing on the pavement.” 

“ Yes,” said he ; but wondering why this incident should 
be referred to at such a moment. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


192 


“ l did not tell you the truth — at least the whole truth. 
When I walked away, what was I thinking of ? I caught my- 
self trying to recall the way in which the woman threw her 
arms up when she saw the dead body of her child, and I was 
wondering whether I could repeat it. Andt hen I began to 
wcnder whether I was a devil — or a woman.” 

“ Bah ! ” said he. “ That is a craze you have at present. 
You have had fifty others before. What I am afraid ol is 
that, at the instigation of some such temporary fad, you will 
take a step that you will find irrevocable. Just think it over, 
Gerty. If you leave the stage, you will destroy many a hope 
1 had formed ; but that doesn’t matter. Whatever is most 
for your happiness — that is the only point.” 

“ And so you have given me your congratulations, papa,” 
she said, rising. “ I have been so thoroughly trained to be 
an actress that, when I marry, I shall only go from one stage 
to another.” 

“ That was only a figure of speech,” said he. 

“ At all events,” she said, “ I shall not be vexed by petty 
jealousies of other actresses, and I shall cease to be worried 
and humiliated by what they say about me in the provincial 
newspapers.” 

“ As for the newspapers,” he retorted, “ you have little to 
complain of. They have treated you very well. And even if 
they annoyed you by a phrase here or there, surely the rem- 
edy is simple. You need not read them. You don’t require 
any recommendation to the public now. As for your jeal- 
ousy of other actresses — that was always an unreasonable 
vexation on your part ” 

“Yes, and that only made it the more humiliating to my- 
self,” said she, quickly. 

“ But think of this,” said he. “ You are married. 
You have been long away from the scene of your former 
triumphs. Some day you go to the theatre ; and you find as 
the favorite of the public a woman who, you can see, cannot 
come near to what you used to do. And I suppose you won’t 
be jealous of her, and anxious to defeat her on the old 
ground.” 

“ I can do with that as you suggested about the news 
papers : I need not go to the theatre.” 

“ Very well, Gerty. I hope all will be for the best. But 
do not be in a hurry ; take time and consider.” 

She saw clearly enough that this calm acquiescence was 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


93 


all the congratulation or advice she was likely to get; ano 
she went to the door. 

“ Papa,” said she, diffidently, “ Sir Keith Macleod is com- 
ing up to-morrow morning — to go to church with us.” 

“ Yes ? ” said he, indifferently. 

“ He may speak to you before we go.” 

“ Very well. Of course I have nothing to say in the mat- 
ter. You are mistress of your own actions.” 

She went to her own room, and locked herself in, feeling 
very lonely, and disheartened, and miserable. There was 
more to alarm her in her father’s faintly expressed doubts 
than in all Carry’s vehement opposition and taunts. Why 
had Macleod left her alone ? — if only she could see him laugh, 
her courage would be reassured. 

Then she bethought her that this was not a fit mood for 
one who had promised to be the wife of a Macleod. She 
went to the mirror and regarded herself ; and almost uncon- 
sciously an expression of pride and resolve appeared about 
the lines of her mouth. And she would show to herself that 
she had still a woman’s feelings by going out and doing some 
actual work of charity ; she would prove to herself that the 
constant simulation of noble emotions had not deadened 
them in her own nature. She put on her hat and shawl, 
and went downstairs, and went out into the free air and the 
sunlight — without a word to either Carry or her father. She 
was trying to imagine herself as having already left the stage 
and all its fictitious allurements. She was now Lady Bounti- 
ful : having looked after the simple cares of her household 
she was now ready to cast her eyes abroad, and relieve in so 
far as she might the distress around her. The first object of 
charity she encountered was an old crossing-sweeper. She 
addressed him in a matter-of-fact way which was intended 
to conceal her fluttering self-consciousness. She inquired 
whether he had a wife ; whether he had any children ; whether 
they were not rather poor. And having been answered 
in the affirmative on all these points, she surprised the old 
man by giving him five shillings and telling him to go home 
and get a good warm dinner for his family. She passed on, 
and did not observe that, as soon as her back was turned, 
the old wretch made straight for the nearest public-house. 

But her heart was happy ; and her courage rose. It was 
not for nothing, then, that she had entertained the bold re- 
solve of casting aside forever the one great ambition of her 
life— -with all its intoxicating successes, and hopes, and strug- 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


10 I 

jyl<*s — for the homely and simple duties of an ordinary wo 
mail’s existence. It was not in vain that she had read and 
dreamed of the far romantic land, and had ventured to think 
of herself as the proud wife of Macleod of Dare. Those 
fierce deeds of valor and vengeance that had terrified and 
thrilled her would now become part of her own inheritance ; 
why, she could tell her friends, when they came to see 
her, of all the old legends and fairy stories that belonged to 
her own home. And the part of Lady Bountiful — surely, if 
she must play some part that was the one she would most 
dearly like to play. And the years would go by ; and she 
would grow silver-haired too ; and when she lay on her death- 
bed she would take her husband’s hand and say, “ Have I 
lived the life you wished me to live?” Her cheerfulness 
grew apace ; and the walking, and the sunshine, and the 
fresh air brought a fine light and color to her eyes and cheeks. 
There was a song singing through her head ; and it was all 
about the brave Glenogie whe rode up the king’s ha’. 

But as she turned the corner of a street, her eye rested 
on a huge colored placard — rested but for a moment, for she 
would not look on the great, gaudy thing. Just at this time 
a noble lord had shown his interest in the British drama by 
spending an enormous amount of money in producing, at a 
theatre of his own building, a spectacular burlesque, the 
gorgeousness of which surpassed anything that had ever 
been done in that way. And the lady who appeared to be 
playing (in silence mostly) the chief part in this hash of glar- 
ing color and roaring music and clashing armor had gained 
a great celebrity by reason of her handsome figure, and the 
splendor of her costume, and the magnificence of the real 
diamonds that she wore. All London was talking of her ; 
and the vast theatre — even in November — was nightly 
crammed to overflowing. As Gertrude White walked back to 
her home her heart was filled with bitterness. She had 
caught sight of the ostentatious placard ; and she knew that 
the photograph of the creature who was figuring there was 
in every stationer’s shop in the Strand. And that which 
galled her was not that the theatre should be so taken and 
so used, but that the stage heroine of the hour should be a 
woman who could act no more than any baboon in the Zoolo* 
gical Gardens 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


1 95 


CHAPTER XXV. 

IN SUSSEX. 

But as for him, there was no moderation at all in the 
vehemence of his joy. In the surprise and bewilderment of 
it, the world around him underwent transfiguration ; London 
in November was glorified into an earthly paradise. The 
very people in the streets seemed to have kindly faces; 
Bury Street, St. James’s — which is usually a somewhat misty 
thoroughfare — was more beautiful than the rose-garden of an 
Eastern king. And on this Saturday afternoon the blue 
skies did, indeed, continue to shine over the great city ; and 
the air seemed sweet and clear enough, as it generally does 
to any one whose every heart-beat is only another throb of 
conscious gladness. 

In this first intoxication of wonder, and pride, and grati- 
tude, he had forgotten all about these ingenious theories which, 
in former days, he had constructed to prove to himself thnt 
Gertrude White should give up her present way of life. Was 
it true, then, that he had rescued the white slave ? Was it 
once and forever that Nature, encountering the subtle demon 
of Art, had closed and wrestled with the insidious thing, had 
seized it by the throat, and choked it, and flung it aside from 
the fair roadway of life ? He had forgotten about these 
things now. All that he was conscious of was this eager 
joy, with now and again a wild wonder that he should in- 
deed have acquired so priceless a possession. Was it possible 
that she would really withdraw herself from the eyes of all 
the world and give herself to him alone ? — that some day, in 
the beautiful and laughing future, the glory of her presence 
would light up the dull halls of Castle Dare ? 

Of course he poured all his pent-up confidence into the ear 
of the astonished major, and again and again expressed his 
gratitude to his companion for having given him the oppor- 
tunity of securing this transcendent happiness. The major was 
somewhat frightened. He did not know in what measure he 
might be regarded as an accomplice by the silver-haired lady 
of Castle Dare. And in any case he was alarmed by the 
vehemence ol the young man. 


MACLEOD OF DARK. 


lt)6 

“ My clear Macleod,” said he, with an oracular air, “you 
never have any hold on yourself. You fling the reins on the 
horse’s neck, and gallop down hill ; a very slight check would 
send you whirling to the bottom. Now, you should take the 
advice of a man of the world, who is older than you, and 
who — if I may say so — has kept his eyes open. I don’t want 
to discourage you ; but you should take it for granted that 
accidents may happen. I would feel the reins a little bit, if 
I were you. Once you’ve got her into the church, and see her 
with a white veil over her head, then you may be as per- 
fervid as you like ” 

And so the simple-minded major prattled on, Macleod 
paying but little heed. There had been nothing about Major 
Stuart’s courtship and marriage to shake the world : why, he 
said to himself, when the lady was pleased to lend a favoring 
ear, was there any reason for making such a fuss ? 

“ Your happiness will all depend on one thing,” said he 
to Macleod, with a complacent wisdom in the round and 
jovial face, “Take my word for it. I hear of people study- 
ing the character, the compatibilities, and what not, of other 
people ; but I never knew of a young man thinking of such 
things when he was in love. He plunges in, and finds out 
afterward. Now it all comes this — is she likely, or not likely, 
to prove a sigher ? ” 

“ A what ? ” said Macleod, apparently awakening from a 
trance. 

“ A sigher. A woman who goes about the house all day 
sighing, whether over your sins or her own, she won’t tell 
you.” 

“ Indeed, I cannot say,” Macleod said, laughing. “ 1 
should hope not. I think she has excellent spirits.” 

“Ah!” said the major, thoughtfully; and he himself 
sighed. Perhaps he was thinking of a certain house far away 
in Mull, to which he had shortly to return. 

Macleod did not know how to show his gratitude toward 
this gcod-natured friend. He would have given him half a 
dozen banquets a day ; and Major Stuart liked a London 
dinner. But what he did offer as a great reward was this : 
that Major Stuart should go up the next morning to a par- 
ticular church, and take up a particular position in that 
church, and then — then he would get a glimpse of the most 
wonderful creature the world had seen. Oddly enough, the 
major did not eagerly accept this munificent offer. To an 
other proposal — that he should go up to Mr. White’s, on the 




MACLEOD OF DARE. 


197 

first day after their return from Sussex, and meet the young 
lady at luncheon — he seemed better inclined. 

“ But why shouldn’t we go to the theatre to-night ? ” said 
he in his simple way. 

Macleod looked embarrassed. 

“ Frankly, then, Stuart,” said he, “I don’t want you to 
make her acquaintance as an actress.” 

“ Oh, very well,” said he, not greatly disappointe 1. 
“Perhaps it is better. You see, I may be questioned at 
Castle Dare. Have you considered that matter ? ” 

“ Oh no,” Macleod said, lightly and cheerfully, “ I have 
had time to consider nothing as yet. I can scarcely believe 
it to be all real. It takes a deal of hard thinking to convince 
myself that I am not dreaming.” 

But the true fashion in which Macleod showed his grati- 
tude to his friend was in concealing his great reluctance on 
going down with him into Sussex. It was like rending bis 
heart-strings for him to leave London for a single hour at this 
time. What beautiful confidences, and tender, timid looks, 
and sweet, small words he was leaving behind him in order 
to go and shoot a lot of miserable pheasants ! He was rather 
gloomy when he met the major at Victoria Station. They 
got into the train ; and away through the darkness of the 
November afternoon they rattled to Three Bridges; but all 
the eager sportsman had gone out of him, and he had next 
to nothing to say in answer to the major’s excited questions. 
Occasionally he would rouse himself from this reverie, and 
he would talk in a perfunctory sort of fashion about the im- 
mediate business of a moment. He confessed that he had 
a certain theoretical repugnance to a battue , if it were at all 
like what people in the newspapers declared it to be. On the 
other hand, he could not well understand — judging by his 
experiences in the highlands — how the shooting of driven 
birds could be so marvellously easy and he was not quite 
sure that the writers he had referred to had had many oppor- 
tunities of practising, or even observing, so very expensive 
an amusement. Major Stuart, for his part, freely admitted 
that he had no scruples whatever. Shooting birds, he roundly 
declared, was shooting birds, whether you shot two or two 
score. And he demurely hinted that, if he had his choice, 
ne would rather shoot the two score. 

“ Mind you, Stuart,” Macleod said, “ if we are. posted , 
anywhere near each other — mind you shoot at any bird that 
comes my way. I should like you to make a big bag that 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 


198 

you may talk about in Mull ; and I really dor. ’t care about 
it.” 

And this was the man whom Miss Carry had described as 
being nothing but a slayer of wild animals and a preserver of 
beasts’ skins ! Perhaps, in that imaginary duel between Nn 
ture and Art, the enemy was not so thoroughly beaten and 
thrown aside, after all. 

So they got to Three Bridges, and there they found the 
carriage awaiting them ; and presently they were whirling 
away along the dark roads, with the lamps shining alternately 
on a line of hedge or on a long stretch of ivied brick wall. 
And at last they passed a lodge gate, and drove through a 
great and silent park; and finally, rattling over the gravel, 
drew up in front of some gray steps and a blaze of light com- 
ing from the wide-open doors. Under Lord Beauregard’s 
guidance, they went into the drawing-room, and found a 
number of people idly chatting there, or reading by the sub- 
dued light of the various lamps on the small tables. There 
was a good deal of talk about the weather. Macleod, vaguely 
conscious that these people were only strangers, and that the 
one heart that was thinking of him was now far away, paid 
but little heed ; if he had been told that the barometer pre- 
dicted fifteen thunder-storms for the morrow, he would have 
been neither startled nor dismayed. 

But he managed to say to his host, aside : — 

“Beauregard, look here. I suppose, in this sort of shoot- 
ing, you have some little understanding with your head- 
keeper about the posts — who is to be a bit favored, you know. 
Well, I wish you would ask him to look after my friend 
Stuart. He can leave me out altogether, if he likes.” 

“ My dear fellow, there will be scarcely any difference ; 
but I will look after your friend myself. I suppose you 9 we 
no guns with you ? ” 

“ I have borrowed Ogilvie’s. Stuart has none.” 

“ I will get one for him.” 

By and by they went upstairs to their respective rooms, 
and Macleod was left alone, that is to say, he was scarcely 
aware of the presence of the man who was opening his port 
tn.mteau and putting out his things. He lay back in the low 
easy-chair, and stared absently into the blazing fire. This 
was a beautiful but a lonely house. There were many stran- 
.gers in it. But if she had been one of the people below — ii 
lie could at this moment look forward to meeting her at din 
nei — it there was a chance of his sitting beside her and lis 


MAC LEO n OF n ARE 


■ n 

teniitg to the low and sweet voice- — with what an eager pv 
he would have waited for the sound of the beli ! As i; was, 
his heart was in London. He had no sort of interest in this 
big house, or in the strangers whom he had met, or in the 
proceedings of the morrow, about which all the men were 
talking. It was a lonely house. 

He was aroused by a tapping at the door. 

“ Come in,” he said, and Major Stuart entered, blooming 
and roseate over his display of white linen. 

“ Good gracious ! ” said he, “ aren’t you dressed yet ? It 
wants but ten minutes to dinner-time. What have you been 
doing ? ” 

Macleod jumped up with some shamefacedness, and be- 
gan to array himself quickly. 

“ Macleod,” said the major, subsiding into the big arm- 
chair very carefully so as not to crease his shining shirt-front, 
“ I must give you another piece of advice. It is serious. I 
have heard again and again that when a man thinks only of 
one thing — w^hen he keeps brooding over it day and night — 
he is bound to become mad. They call it monomania. You 
are becoming a monomaniac.” 

“ Yes, I think I am,” Macleod said, laughing ; “ but it is 
a very pleasant sort of monomania, and I am not anxious to 
become sane. But you really must not be hard on me, 
Stuart. You know that this is rather an important thing that 
has happened to me ; and it W'ants a good deal of thinking 
over.” 

“ Bah ! ” the major cried, *■ why take it so much au grand 
serieux ? A girl likes you ; says she’ll marry you ; probably, 
if she continues in the same mind, she will. Consider your 
self a lucky dog ; and don’t break your heart, if an accidenl 
occurs. Hope for the best — that you and she mayn’t quarrel, 
and that she mayn’t prove a sigher. Now wdiat do you think 
of this house ? I consider it an uncommon good dodge to 
put each person’s name outside his bedroom door; there 
can’t be any confounded mistakes — and women squealing— 
if you come up late at night. Why, Macleod, you don’t mean 
that this affair has destroyed all your interest in the shoot- 
ing ? Man, I have been down to the gun-room with your 
friend Beauregard ; have seen the head-keeper ; got a gun 
that suits me firstrate — a trifle long in the stock, perhaps, 
but no matter. You w^on’t tip any more than the head-keeper, 
eh ? And the fellow who carries your cartridge-bag ? I do 
think it uncommonly civil of a man not only to ask you to go 


I CO 


MACLEOD OF DARE 


shooting, bv t to find you in guns and cartridges; don't 
you ? ” 

The major chatted on with great cheerfulness. He 
clearly considered that he had got into excellent quarters. 
At dinner he told some of his most famous Indian stories to 
Lady Beauregard, near whom he was sitting ; and at night, 
in the improvised smoking-room, he was great on deer-stalk- 
ing. It was not necessary for Macleod, or anybody else, to 
talk. The major was in full flow, though he stoutly refused 
to touch the spirits on the table. He wanted a clear head 
and a steady hand for the morning. 

Alas ! alas ! The next morning presented a woful 
spectacle. Gray skies ; heavy and rapidly drifting clouds ; 
pouring rain ; runnels of clear water by the side of every 
gravel-path ; a rook or two battling with the squally south- 
wester high over the wide and desolate park : the wild-ducks 
at the margin of the ruffled lake flapping their wings v as if the 
wet was too much even for them ; nearer at hand the firs and 
evergreens all dripping. After breakfast the male guests 
wandered disconsolately into the cold billiard-room, and be- 
gan knocking the balls about. All the loquacious cheerful- 
ness of the major had fled. He looked out on the wet park 
and the sombre woods, and sighed. 

But about twelve o’clock there was a great hurry and con- 
fusion throughout the house ; for all of a sudden the skies in 
the west cleared ; there was a glimmer of blue; and then 
gleams of a pale wan light began to stream over the land- 
scape. There was a rush to the gun-room, and an eager 
putting on of shooting-boots and leggings ; there was a rapid 
tying up of small packages of sandwiches ; presently the 
wagonette was at the door. And then away they went over 
the hard gravel, and out into the wet roads, with the sunlighf 
now beginning to light up the beautiful woods about Crawley. 
The horses seemed to know there was no time to lose. A 
new spirit took possession of the party. The major’s face 
glowed as red as the hip that here and there among the al- 
most leafless hedges shone in the sunlight on the ragged 
Drier stem. 

And yet it was about one o’clock before the work of the 
day began, for the beaters had to be summoned from various 
parts, and the small boys with the white flags — the “ stops” 
— had to be posted so as to check runners. And then the 
six guns went down over a ploughed field — half clay and 
half chalk, and ankle deep — to the margin of a rapidly run 


Ma jl cod of da fs. 


20k 


niug and coffee-colored stream, which three of them had to 
cross bv means of a very shaky plank. Lord Beauregard, 
Major Stuart, and Macleod remained on this side, keeping 
a look-out for a straggler, but chiefly concerned with the 
gradually opening and brightening sky. Then far away 
they heard a slight tapping on the trees ; and almost at the 
same moment another sound caused the hearts of the two 
novices to jump. It was a quick cuck-cuck, accompanied by 
a rapid and silken winnowing of the air. Then an object, which 
seemed like a cannon-ball with a long tail attached, came whiz- 
zing along. Major Stuart fired — a bad miss. Then he wheeled 
round, took good aim, and down came a mass of feathers, 
whirling, until it fell motionless on the ground. 

“ Well hit ! ” Macleod cried ; but at the same moment 
he became conscious that he had better mind his own busi- 
ness, for there was another whirring sound, and then he saw 
this rapidly enlarging object coming straight at him. He 
fired, and shot the bird dead ; but so rapid was its flight 
that he had to duck his head as the slain bird drove past his 
face and tumbled on to the ground behind him. 

“This is rather like firing at bomb-shells,” he called out 
to Lord Beauregard. 

It was certainly a new experience for Macleod to figure 
as a novice in any matter connected with shooting ; but both 
the major and he speedily showed that they were not unfamil- 
iar with the use bf a gun. Whether the birds came at them 
like bomb-shells, or sprung like a sky-rocket through the 
leafless branches, they met with the same polite attention ; 
though occasionally one would double back on the beaters 
and get clear away, sailing far into the silver-clear sky. 
Lord Beauregard scarcely shot at all, unless he was fairly 
challenged by a bird flying right past him : he seemed quite 
content to see his friends having plenty of work ; while, in 
the interest of the beaters, he kept calling out, in a high 
monotone, “Shoot high! shoot high!” Then there was 
some motion among the brushwood ; here and there a man 
or boy appeared ; and finally the under-keeper with his r e- 
triever came across the stream to pick up the dead biids. 
That bit was done with : vonvarts ! 

“ Well, Stuart,” Macleod said, “ what do you think of it ? 
I don’t see anything murderous or unsportsmanlike in this 
kind of shooting. Of course shooting with dogs is much 
prettier ; and you don’t get any exercise standing in a wet 


202 


MACLEOD 0E DARE. 


field ; but the mtn who says that shooting those birds re- 
quires no skill at all — well, I should like see him try.” 

“ Macleod,” said the major, gravely, as they plodded 
along, “you may think that I despise this kind of thing; 
but I don’t : I give you my solemn word of honor that I don’t. 
I will even go the length of saying that if Piovidence had 
blessed me with £ 20,000 a year, I should be quite content to 
own a bit of country like this. I played the part of the wild 
mountaineer last night, you know; that was all very well — ” 

Here there was a loud call from Lord Beauregard, who 
had overtaken them — “Hare! hare! Mark hare ? y ’ The 
major jumped round, put up his gun, and banged away — 
shooting far ahead in his eagerness. Macleod looked on, 
and did not even raise his gun. 

“ That comes of talking,” the major said, gloomily. “ And 
you — why didn’t you shoot ? I never saw you miss a hare in 
my life.” 

“ I was not thinking of it,” Macleod said, indifferently. 

It was very soon apparent that he was thinking of some- 
thing other than the shooting of pheasants or hares ; for as 
they went from one wood to another during this beautiful 
brief November day he generally carried his gun over his 
shoulder — even when the whirring, bright-plumaged birds 
were starting from time to time from the hedgerows — -and 
devoted most of his attention to warning his friend wher. 
and where to shoot. However, an incident occurred which 
entirely changed the aspect of affairs. At one beat he was 
left quite alone, posted in an open space of low brushwood 
dose by the corner of a wood. He rested the butt of his 
gun on his foot ; he was thinking, not of any pheasant or 
hare, but of the beautiful picture Gertrude White would make 
if she were coming down one of these open glades, between 
the green stems of the trees, with the sunlight around her 
and the fair sky overhead. Idly he watched the slowly drift- 
ing clouds ; they were going away northward — by and by 
they would sail over London. The rifts of blue wudened in 
the clear silver ; surely the sunlight would now be shining 
over Regent’s Park. Occasionally a pheasant came clatter- 
ing along ; he only regarded the shining colors of its head 
and neck biilliant in the sunlight. A rabbit trotted by him ; 
he let it go. But while he was standing thus, and vaguely 
listening to the rattle of guns on the other side, he was sud- 
denly startled by a quick cry of pain ; and he thought he 
heard some one call, “ Macleod ! Macleod ! ” Instantly he 


MACLEOD OF DAKE. 


203 

put his gun against a bush, and ran. He found a hedge at 
the end of the wood ; he drove through it, and got into the 
open field. There was the unlucky major, with blood run- 
ning down his face, a handkerchief in his hand, and two men 
beside Iffm, one of them offering him some brandy from a 
flask. However, after the first fright was over, it was seen 
that Major Stuart was but slightly hurt. The youngest mem- 
ber of the party had fired at a bird coming out of the wood ; 
had missed it ; had tried to wheel round to send the second 
barrel after it ; but his feet, having sunk into the wet clay, 
had caught there, and, in his stumbling fall, somehow or 
other the second barrel went off, one pellet just catching the 
major under the eye. The surface wound caused a good 
shedding of blood, but that was all ; and when the major 
had got his face washed he shouldered his gun again, and 
with indomitable pluck said he would see the thing out. It 
was nothing but a scratch, he declared. It might have been 
dangerous ; but what was the good of considering what might 
have been ? To the young man who had been the cause of 
the accident, and who was quite unable to express his pro- 
found sorrow and shame, he was generously considerate, 
saying that he had fined him in the sum of one penny when 
he took a postage-stamp to cover the wound. 

“ Lord Beauregard,” said he, cheerfully, “ I want you to 
show me a thorough-going hot corner. You know I am an 
ignoramus of this kind of thing.” 

“ Well,” said his host, “ there is a good bit along here, 
if you would rather go on.” 

“ Go on ? ” said he. “ Of course ! ” 

And it was a “ hot corner.” They came to it at the end 
of a long double hedgerow connected with the wood they 
had just beaten ; and as there was no “ stop ” at the corner 
of the wood, the pheasants in large numbers had run into 
the channel between the double line of hedge. Here they 
were followed by the keepers and beaters, who kept gently 
driving them along. Occasionally one got up, and was in- 
stantly knocked over by one of the guns ; but it was evident 
that the “ hot corner ” would be at the end of this hedgerow, 
where there was stationed a smock-f rocked rustic who, down 
on hrs knees, was gently tapping with a bit of stick. The 
number of birds getting up increased, so that the six guns 
had pretty sharp work to reckon with them ; and not a few 
of the wildly whirring objects got clean away into the next 
wood — Lord Beauregard all the time calling out from the 


204 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


other side of the hedge, “Shoot high ! shoot high ! ” But at 
the end of the hedgerow an extraordinary scene occurred. 
One after the other, then in twos and threes, the birds sprang 
high over the bushes ; the rattle of musketry — all the guns 
being together now — was deafening ; the air was filled with 
gunpowder smoke ; and every second or two another bird 
came tumbling down on to the young corn. Macleod, with 
a sort of derisive laugh, put his gun over his shoulder. 

“ This is downright stupidity,” he said to Major Stuart, 
who was blazing away as hard as ever he could cram cart- 
ridges into the hot barrels of his gun. “ You can’t tell 
whether you are hitting the bird or not. There ! Three 
men fired at that bird — the other two were not touched.” 

The fusillade lasted for about eight or ten minutes ; and 
then it was discovered that though certainly two or three 
hundred pheasants had got up at this corner, only twenty- 
two and a half brace were killed — to five guns. 

“ Well,” said the major, taking off his cap and wiping his 
forehead, “ that was a bit of a scrimmage ! ” 

“ Perhaps,” said Macleod, who had been watching with 
some amusement his friend’s fierce zeal ; “ but it was not 
shooting. I defy you to say how many birds you shot. Or 
I will do this with you — I will bet you a sovereign that if you 
ask each man to tell you how many birds he has shot during 
the day, and add them all up, the total will be twice the num- 
ber of birds the keepers will take home. But I am glad you 
seem to enjoy it, Stuart.” 

“ To tell you the truth, Macleod,” said the other, “ I think 
I have had enough of it. I don’t want to make a fuss ; but I 
fancy I don’t quite see clearly with this eye. It may be 
some slight inflammation ; but I think I will go back to the 
house, and see if there’s any surgeon in the neighborhood.” 

“ There you are right ; and I will go back with you,” 
Macleod said, promptly. 

When their host heard of this, he was for breaking up the 
party ; but Major Stuart warmly remonstrated ; and so one 
of the men was sent with the two friends to show them the 
way back to the house. When the surgeon came he exam 
ined the wound, and pronounced it to be slight enough in 
itself but possibly dangerous when so near so sensitive an 
organ as the eye. He advised the major, if any symptoms 
of inflammation declared themselves, to go at once to a skill- 
ful oculist in London, and not to leave for the North until he 
was quite assured. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


2f 5 


“ That souncs lather well^ Macleod,” said he, ruefully. 

“ Oh, if you must remain in London — though I hope not 
— I will stay with you,” Macleod said. It was a great sacri- 
fice, his remaining in London, instead of going at once back 
to Castle Dare ; but what will not one do for one’s friend ? 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

AN INTERVIEW. 

On the eventful morning on which Major Stuart was to 
be presented to the chosen bride of Macleod of Dare, the 
simple-hearted soldier — notwithstanding that he had a shade 
over one eye, made himself exceedingly smart. He would 
show the young lady that Macleod’s friends in the North 
were not barbarians. The major sent back his boots to be 
brushed a second time. A more smoothly fitting pair of 
gloves Bond Street never saw. 

“ But you have not the air,” said he to Macleod, “of a 
young fellow going to see his sweetheart. What is the matter, 
man ? ” 

Macleod hesitated for a moment. 

“ Well, I am anxious she should impress you favorably,” 
said he, frankly ; “ and it is an awkward position for her — 
and she will be embarrassed, no doubt — and I have some 
pity for her, and almost wish some other way had been 
taken ” 

“ Oh, nonsense ? ” the major said, cheerfully. “ You need 
not be nervous on her account. Why, man, the silliest girl 
in the world could impose on an old fool like me. Once 
upon a time, perhaps, I may have considered myself a con- 
noisseur — well, you know, Macleod, I once had a waist like 
(he rest of you ; but now, bless you, if a tolerably pretty girl 
only says a civil word or two to me, I begin to regard her 
as if 1 were her guardian angel — in loco parejitis, and that 
kind of thing — and I would sooner hang myself than scan her 
dress or say a word about her figure. Do you think she will 
be afraid of a critic with one eye ? Have courage, man. I 
dare bet a sovereign she is quite capable of taking care 0 / 
herself. It’s her business.” 


206 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


Macleod flushed quickly, and the one eye of he majo? 
caught that sudden confession of shame or resentment. 

“ What I meant was,” he said, instantly, “ that nature had 
taught the simplest of virgins a certain trick of lence — ol; 
yes, don’t you be afraid. Embarrassment ! If there is any 
one embarrassed, it will not be me, and it will not be she. 
Why, she’ll begin to wonder whether you are really one of 
the Macleods, if you show yourself nervous, apprehensive, 
(lightened like this.” 

“ And indeed, Stuart,” said he, rising as if to shake off 
some weight of gloomy feeling, “ I scarcely know what is the 
matter with me. I ought to be the happiest man in the 
world ; and sometimes this very happiness seems so great 
that it is like to suffocate me — I cannot breathe fast enough ; 
and then, again, I get into such unreasoning fears and 
troubles — Well, let us get out into the fresh air.” 

The major carefully smoothed his hat once more, and 
took up his cane. He followed Macleod down stairs — like 
Sancho Panza waiting on Don Quixote, as he himself ex- 
pressed it ; and then the two friends slowly sauntered away 
northward on this fairly clear and pleasant December morn- 
ing. 

“ Your nerves are not in a healthy state, that’s the fact, 
Macleod,” said the major, as they walked along. “ The 
climate of London is too exciting for you ; a good, long, dull 
winter in Mull will restore your tone. But in the meantime 
don’t cut my throat, or your own, or anybody else’s.” 

“ Am I likely to do that ? ” Macleod said, laughing. 

“ There was young Bouverie,” the major continued, noi 
heeding the question — “ what a handsome young fellow he 
was when he joined us at Gawulpoor ! — and he hadn’t been 
in the place a week but he must needs go regular head over 
heels about our colonel’s sister-in-law. An uncommon pretty 
woman she was, too — an Irish girl, and fond of riding ; and 
dash me if that fellow didn’t fairly try to break his neck 
again and again just that she should admire his pluck ! lie 
was as mad as a hatter, about her. Well, one day two or 
three of us had been riding for two or three hours on a 
blazing hot morning, and we came to one of the irrigation 
reservoirs — big wells, you know — and what does he do but 
offer to bet twenty pounds he would dive into the well and 
swim about for ten minutes, till we hoisted him out at the end 
of the rope. I forget who took the bet, for none of us 
thought he would do it : but 1 believe he would have done 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


207 


anything so that the story of his pluck wou.d be carried to 
the girl, don’t you know. Well, off went his clothes, and in 
le jumped into the ice-cold water. Nothing would stop him. 
But at the end of the ten minutes, when we hoisted up the 
rope, there was no Bouverie there. It appeared that on 
clinging on to the rope he had twisted it somehow, and sud- 
denly found himself about to have his neck broken, so he had 
to shake himself free and plunge into the water again. When 
at last we got him out, he had had a longer bath than he had 
bargained for; but there was apparently nothing the matter 
with him — and he had won the money, and there would be a 
talk about him. However, two days afterward, when he was 
at dinner, he suddenly felt as though he had got a blow on 
the back of his head — so he told us afterward — and fell back 
insensible. That was the beginning of it. It took him five 
or six years to shake off the effects of that dip ” 

“ And did she marry him, after all ? ” Macleod said, 
eagerly. 

“ Oh dear, no ! I think he had been invalided home 
not more than two or three months when she married Con- 
nolly, of the Seventy-first Madras Infantry. Then she ran 
away from him with some civilian fellow, and Connolly blew 
his brains out. That,” said the major, honestly,. “ is always 
a puzzle to me. How a fellow can be such an ass as to blow 
his brains out when his wife runs away from him beats my 
comprehension altogether. Now what I would do would be 
this : I would thank goodness I was rid of such a piece of 
baggage ; I would get all the good- fellows I know, and give 
them a rattling fine dinner ; and I would drink a bumper to 
her health and another bumper to her never coming back.” 

“ And I would send you our Donald, and he would play, 
* Cha till mi tuilich ’ for you,” Macleod said. 

“ But as for blowing my brains out 1 Well,” the major 
added, with a philosophic air, “ when a man is mad he cares 
neither for his own life nor for anybody else’s. Look at 
I hose cases you continually see in the papers : a young man 
is in love with a young woman ; they quarrel, or she prefers 
some one else ; what does he do but lay hold of her some 
e\ening and cut her throat — to show his great love for her — 
and then he coolly gives himself up to the police, and says 
he is quite content to be hanged.” 

“ Stuart,” said Macleod, laughing, “ I don’t like this talk 
about hanging. You said a minute or two ago that I was 
mad.” 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


2oS 

“ More or less,” observed the major, with absolute grav- 
ity ; “ as the lawyer said when he mentioned the Fifteen-acres 
park at Dublin.” 

“ Well, let us get into a hansom,” Macleod said. “ When 
I am hanged you will ask them to write over my tombstone 
that I never kept anybody waiting for either luncheon or 
dinner.” 

The trim maid-servant who opened the door greeted Mac- 
leod with a pleasant smile ; she was a sharp wench, and had 
discovered that lovers have lavish hands. She showed the 
two visitors into the drawing-room ; Macleod silent, and lis- 
tening intently ; the one-eyed major observing everything, 
and perhaps curious to know whether the house of an actress 
differed from that of anybody else. He very speedily came 
to the conclusion that, in his small experience, he had never 
seen any house of its size so tastefully decorated and accu- 
rately managed as this simple home. 

“ But what’s this ! ” he cried, going to the mantelpiece 
and taking down a drawing that was somewhat ostentatiously 
placed there. “Well! If this is English hospitality! By 
Jove ! an insult to me, and my father, and my father’s clan, 
that blood alone will wipe out. ‘ The Astonishment of 
Sandy MacAlister Mhor on beholding a Glimpse of Sunlight,’ 
Look ! ” 

He showed the rude drawing to Macleod — a sketch of a 
wild Highlander, with his hair on end, his eyes starting out 
of his head, and his hands uplifted in bewilderment. This 
work of art was the production of Miss Carry, who, on hear- 
ing the knock at the door, had whipped into the room, placed 
her bit of savage satire over the mantelpiece, and whipped 
out again. But her deadly malice so far failed of its purpose 
that, instead of inflicting any annoyance, it most effectually 
broke the embarrassment of Miss Gertrude’s entrance and 
introduction to the major. 

“ Carry has no great love for the Highlands,” she said, 
laughing and slightly blushing at the same time ; “but she 
need not have prepared so cruel a welcome for you. Won’t 
/ou sit down, Major Stuart ? Papa will be here directly.” 

“ I think it is uncommonly clever,” the major said, fixing 
his one eye on the paper as if he would give Miss White dis. 
tinctly to understand that he had not come to stare at her- 
“ Perhaps she will like us better when she knows more about 
us.” 

“ Do you think,” said Miss White, demurely, “that it is 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


209 

possible for any one born in the South to learn to like the 
bagpipes ? ” 

“ No,” said Macleod, quickly — and it was not usual for 
him to break in in this eager way about a usual matter of 
talk — “ that is all a question of association. If you had been 
brought up to associate the sound of the pipes with every 
memorable thing — with the sadness of a funeral, and the wel- 
come of friends come to see you, and the pride of going away 
to war — then you would understand why ‘ Lord Lovats 1 ,;i* 
ment,’ or the ‘Farewell to Gibraltar,’ or the ‘ Heights ol 
Alma ’ — why these bring the tears to a Highlander’s eyes. 
The pibrochs preserve our legends for us,” he went on to 
say, in rather an excited fashion, for he was obviously ner- 
vous, and perhaps a trifle paler than usual. “ They remind 
us of what our families have done in all parts of the world, 
and there is not one you do not associate with some friend 
or relative who is gone away, or with some great merry- 
making, or with the death of one who was dear to you. You 
never saw that — the boat taking the coffin across the loch, 
and the friends of the dead sitting with bowed heads, and the 
piper at the bow playing the slow Lament to the time of the 
oars. If you had seen that, you would know what the 
‘ Cumhadh na Cloinne ’ is to a Highlander. And if you have 
a friend come to see you, what is it first tells you of his 
coming ? When you can hear nothing for the waves, you can 
hear the pipes ! And if you were going into a battle, what 
would put madness into your head but to hear the march 
that you know your brothers and uncles and cousins last 
heard when they marched on with a cheer to take death as 
it happened to come to them ? You might as well wonder at 
the Highlanders loving the heather. That is not a very 
handsome flower.” 

Miss White was sitting quite calm and collected. A 
covert glance or two had convinced the major that she was 
entirely mistress of the situation. If there was any one ner- 
vous, embarrassed, excited, through this interview, it was 
not Miss Gertrude White. 

“ The other morning,” she said, complacently, and she 
pulled down her dainty white cuffs another sixteenth of an 
inch, “ I was going along Buckingham Palace Road, and I 
met a detachment — is a detachment right, Major Stuart ? — 
of a Highland regiment. At least I supposed it was part of 
a Highland regiment, because they had eight pipers playing 
at their head ; and I noticed that the cab horses were far 


2 JO 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


more frightened than they would have been at twice the 
noise coming from an ordinary band. I was wondering 
whether they might think it the roar of some strange animal 
— you know how a camel frightens a horse. Hut I envied 
the officer who was riding in front of the soldiers. He was 
a very handsome man ; and I thought how proud he must 
feel to be at the head of those fine, stalwart fellows. In fact, 
1 felt for a moment that 1 should like to have command of a 
regiment myself. 

“ Fai f h,” said the major, gallantly, “ I would exchange 
into that regiment, if I had to serve as a drummer-boy.” 

Embarrassed by this broad compliment ? Not a bit of it. 
She laughed lightly, and then rose to introduce the two vis- 
itors to her father, who had just entered the room. 

It was not to be expected that Mr. White, knowing the 
errand of his guests, should give them an inordinately effu- 
sive welcome ; but he was gravely polite. He prided him- 
self on beihg a man of common-sense, and he knew it was 
no use fighting against the inevitable. If his daughter 
would leave the stage, she would ; and there was some 
small compensation in the fact that by her doing so she 
would become Lady Macleod. He would have less money 
to spend on trinkets two hundred years old ; but he would 
gain something — a very little no doubt — from the reflected 
lustre of her social position. 

“ We were talking about officers, papa,” she said, brightly, 
“ and I was about to confess that I have always had a great 
liking for soldiers. I know if I had been a man I should 
have been a soldier. But do you know, Sir Keith, you were 
once very rude to me about your friend Lieutenant Ogilvie ? ” 

Macleod started. 

“ I hope not,” said he gravely. 

“ Oh yes, you were. Don’t you remember the Caledonian 
Ball ? I only remarked that Lieutenant Ogilvie, who seemed 
to me a bonnie boy, did not look as if he were a veryformid 
able warrior; and you answered with some dark saying— 
vliat was it ? — that nobody could tell what sword was in a 
scabbard until it was drawn ? ” 

“ Oh,” said he, laughing somewhat nervously, “ you for- 
get : I was talking to the Duchess of Devonshire.” 

“ And I am sure her Grace was much obliged to you for 
frightening her so,” Miss White said, with a dainty smile. 

Major Stuart was greatly pleased by the appearance and 
chaining manner of this young lady. If M.-u-jrod, who was 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


2 i i 

confessedly a handsome young fellow, had searched all over 
England, he could not have chosen a fitter mate. Hut he 
was also distinctly of opinion — judging by his one eye only 
— that nobody needed to be alarmed about this young lady’s 
exceeding sensitiveness and embarrassment before strangers 
He thought she would on all occasions be fairly capable ot 
holding her own. And he was quite convinced, too, that the 
beautiful clear eyes, under the long lashes, pretty accurately 
divined what was going forward. But what did this impress- 
ion of the honest soldier’s amount to ? Onlyg in other words, 
that Miss Gertrude White, although a pretty woman, was not 
a fool. 

Luncheon was announced, and they went into the other 
room, accompanied by Miss Carry, who had suffered herself 
to be introduced to Major Stuart with a certain proud 
sedateness. And now the major played the part of the ac- 
cepted lover’s friend to perfection. He sat next Miss White 
herself ; and no matter what the talk was about, he managed 
to bring it round to something that redounded to Macleod’s 
advantage. Macleod could do this, and Macleod could do 
that ; it was all Macleod, and Macleod, and Macleod. 

“ And if you should ever come to our part of the world. 
Miss White,” said the major — not letting his glance meet 
hers — “you will be able to understand something of the old 
loy r alty and affection and devotion the people in the High- 
lands showed to their chiefs ; for I don’t believe there is a 
man, woman, or child about the place who would not rather 
have a hand cut off than that Macleod should have a thorn 
scratch him. And it is all the more singular, you know, that 
they are not Macleods. Mull is the country of the Macleans; 
ancl the Macleans and the Macleods had their fights in 
former times. There is a cave they will show you round the 
point from Ru na Gaul lighthouse that is called Uamh-na- 
Ccann — that is, the Cavern of the Skulls — where the Mac- 
leods murdered fifty of the Macleans, though Alastair Cro- 
tach, the humpbacked son of Macleod, was himself killed.” 

“I beg your pardon, Major Stuart,” said Miss Carry, 
with a grand stateliness in her tone, “ but will you allow me 
to ask if this is true ? It is a passage I saw quoted in a book 
the other day, and I copied it out. It says something about 
the character of the people you are talking about.” 

She handed him the bit of paper ; and he read these 
words ; “ 7 Yew it is, that thir Ilandish wen ar of nature veric 
prowd, suspicious , ava^eious,fuU of decept and evil l inventioun 


212 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


each aganis his nychtbour, be what way soever he may circum- 
r in him . Besydis all this , they ar sa crewall in taking oj 
revenge that nather have they regard to person, eage , tyme, or 
cans ; sa ar they generallie all sa far ad diet it to thair aw in ty- 
rannicall opinions that, in all respects , they exceed in creiveliu 
the maist barbarous people that ever hes bene sen the begynnwg 
of the war Id.” 

“ Upon my word,” said the honest major, “ it is a most 
formidable indictment. You had better ask Sir Keith about 
it.” 

He handed the paper across the table ; Macleod read it, 
and burst out laughing. 

“ It is too true, Carry,” said he. “ We are a dreadful 
lot of people up there among the hills. Nothing but murder 
and rapine from morning till night.” 

“ I was telling him this morning he would probably be 
hanged,” observed the major, gravely. 

“ For what ? ” Miss White asked. 

“ Oh,” said the major, carelessly, “ I did not specify the 
offence. Cattle-lifting, probably.” 

Miss Carry’s fierce onslaught was thus laughed away, and 
they proceeded to other matters ; the major meanwhile not 
failing to remark that this luncheon differed considerably 
from the bread and cheese and glass of whiskey of a shooting- 
day in Mull. Then they returned to the drawing-room, and 
had tea there, and some further talk. The major had by 
this time quite abandoned his critical and observant attitude. 
He had succumbed to the enchantress. He was ready to 
declare that Gertrude White was the most fascinating woman 
he had ever met, while, as a matter of fact, she had been 
rather timidly making suggestions and asking his opinion 
all the time. And when they rose to leave, she said, — 

“ I am very sorry, Major Stuart, that this unfortunate ac- 
cident should have altered your plans ; but since you must 
remain in London, I hope we shall see you often before you 
go.” 

“ You are very kind,” said he. 

“ We cannot ask you to dine with us,” she said, quite 
simply and frankly, “because of my engagements in the 
evening ; but we are always at home at lunch-time, and Sir 
Keith knows the way.” 

“ Thank you very much,” said the major, as he warmlj 
pressed her hand. 

The two friends passed out into the street. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


2 

“My dear fellow,” said the major, “you have been lucky 
--don’t imagine 1 am humbugging you. A really handsome 
lass, and a thorough woman of the world, too — trained and 
fitted at every point ; none of your farmyard beauties. But 
I say, Macleod — I say,” he continued, solemnly, “ won’t she 
find it a trifle dull at Castle Dare ? — the change, you know.” 

“ It is not necessary that she should live at Dare,” Mac- 
leod said. 

“ Oh, of course, you know your own plans best.” 

“ I have none. All that is in the air as yet. And so you 
do not think I have make a mistake.” 

“ I wish I was five-and-twenty, and could make a mistake 
like that,” said the major, with a sigh. 

Meanwhile Miss Carry had confronted her sister. 

“ So you have been inspected, Gerty. Do you think you 
passed muster ? ” 

“ Go away, and don’t be impertinent, you silly girl ! ” 
said the other, good-naturedly. 

Carry pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket, 
and, advancing, placed it on the table. 

“There,” said she, “put that in your purse, and don’t 
tell me you have not been warned, Gertrude White.” 

The elder sister did as she was bid'; but indeed she was 
not thinking at that moment of the cruel and revengeful 
character of the Western Highlanders, which Miss Carry’s 
quotation set forth in such plain terms. She was thinking 
that she hacTnever before seen Glenogie look so soldier-like 
and handsome. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

AT A RAILWAY STATION", 

The few days of grace obtained by the accident that hap* 
pened to Major Stuart fled too quickly away, and the time 
came for saying farewell. With a dismal apprehension Mac- 
leod looked forward to this moment. He had seen her on 
the stage bid a pathetic good-by to her lover, nnd there it 
was beautiful enough — with her shy coquetries, and her win- 
ning ways, and the timid, reluctant confession of her love. 


MACLECD OF DARE . 


214 

But there was nothing at all beautiful abuut this ordenl 
through which he must pass. It was harsh and horrible. 
He trembled even as he thought of it. 

The last day of his stay in London arrived ; he rose with 
a sense of some awful doom hanging over him that he could 
in nowise shake off. It was a strange day, too — the world 
of London vaguely shining through a pale fog, the sun a 
globe of red fire. There was hoar-frost on the window-ledges 
at last the winter seemed about to begin. 

And then, as ill luck would have it, Miss White had some 
important business at the theatre to attend to, so that she 
could not see him till the afternoon ; and he had to pass the 
empty morning somehow. 

“ You look like a man going to be hanged,” said the ma- 
jor, about noon. “ Come, shall we stroll down to the river 
now ? We can have a chat with your friend before lunch, and 
a look over his boat.” 

Colonel Ross, being by chance at Erith, had heard of Mac- 
leod’s being in town, and had immediately come up in his 
little steam-yacht, the Iris , which now lay at anchor close to 
Westminster Bridge, on the Lambeth side. He had pro- 
posed, merely for the oddity of the thing, that Macleod and 
his friend the major should lunch on board, and young Ogil- 
vie had promised to run up from Aldershot. 

“ Macleod,” said the gallant soldier, as the two friends 
walked leisurely down towards the Thames, “ if you let this 
monomania get such a hold of you, do you know how it will 
end ? You will begin to show signs of having a conscience.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” said he, absently. 

" Your nervous system will break down, and you will be- 
gin to have a conscience. That is a sure sign, in either a 
man or a nation. Man, don’t I see it all around us now in 
this way of looking at India and the colonies ! We had no 
conscience — we were in robust health as a nation — when we 
thrashed the French out of Canada, and seized India, and 
stole land just wherever we could put our fingers on it all 
over the globe ; but now it is quite different ; we are only edu- 
cating these countries up to self-government ; it is all in the in- 
terest of morality that we protect them ; as soon as they wish 
to go we will give them our blessing — in short, we have got 
a conscience, because the national health is feeble and nerv- 
ous. You look out, or you will get into the same condition. 
You will begin to ask .whether it is right to shoot pretty little 


( 


MACLEOD OF DAK & 


2 *5 

birds in order 10 eat them ; you will bet pme a vegetarian ; 
and you will take to goloshes.” 

“ Good gracious ! ” said Macleod, waking up, “ what is all 
his about ? ” 

“ Rob Roy,” observed the major, oracularly, “ was a 
healthy man. I will make you a bet he was not much troubled 
by chilblains.” 

“ Stuart,” Macleod cried, “do you want to drive me mad ? 
What on earth are you talking about ? ” 

“ Anything,” the major confessed, frankly, “ to rouse you 
out of your monomania, because I don’t want to have my 
throat cut by a lunatic some night up at Castle Dare.” 

“ Castle Dare,” repeated Macleod, gloomily. “ I think I 
shall scarcely know the place again ; and we have been away 
about a fortnight ! ” 

No sooner had they got down to the landing-step on the 
Lambeth side of the river than they were descried from the 
deck of the beautiful little steamer, and a boat was sent 
ashore for them. Colonel Ross was standing by the tiny gang- 
way to receive them. They got on board, and passed into the 
glass-surrounded saloon. There certainly was something odd 
in the notion of being anchored in the middle of the great 
city — absolutely cut off from it, and enclosed in a miniature 
floating world, the very sound of it hushed and remote. And, 
indeed, on this strange morning the big town looked more 
dreamlike than usual as they regarded it from the windows 
of this saloon — the buildings opal-like in the pale fog, a dusky 
glitter on the high towers of the Houses of Parliament, ana 
some touches of rose red on the ripples of the yellow water 
around them. 

Right over there was the very spot to which he had idly 
wandered in the clear d'awn to have a look at the peacefully 
flowing stream. How long ago? It seemed to him, looking 
back, somehow the morning of life — shining clear and beau- 
tiful, before any sombre anxieties and joys scarcely less pain- 
ful had come to cloud the fair sky. He thought of himself 
at that time with a sort of wonder. He saw himself standing 
there, glad to watch the pale and glowing glory of the dawn, 
careless as to what the day might bring forth ; and he knew 
that it was another and an irrecoverable Macleod he was 
mentally regarding. 

Well, when his friend Ogilvie arrived, he endeavored to 
assume some greater spirit and cheerfulness, and they had a 
pleasant enough luncheon party in the gently moving saloon. 


2l6 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 


Thereafter Colonel Ross was for getting up steam and tak- 
ing them for a run somewhere ; but at this point Macleod 
begged to be excused for running away ; and so, having con- 
signed Major Stuart to the care of his host for the moment, 
and having bade good-by to Ogilvie, he went ashore. He 
made his way up to the cottage in South Bank. He entered 
the drawing-room and sat down, alone. 

When she came in, she said, with a quick anxiety, * You 
are not ill ? ” 

“ No, no,” he said rising, and his face was haggard some- 
what ; “ but — but it is not pleasant to come to say good- 
by ” 

“ You must not take it so seriously as that,” she said, with 
a friendly smile. 

“ My going away is like going into a grave,” he said, slow- 
ly. “ It is dark.” 

And then he took her two hands in his, and regarded her 
with such an intensity of look that she almost drew back, 
afraid. 

“ Sometimes,” he said, watching her eyes, “ I think I 
shall never see you again.” 

“ Oh, Keith,” said she, drawing her hands away, and 
speaking half playfully, “ you really frighten me ! And even 
if you were never to see me again, wouldn’t it be a very good 
thing for you ? You would have got rid of a bad bargain.” 

“ It would not be a very good thing for me,” he said, still 
regarding her. 

“ Oh, well, don’t speak of it,” said she, lightly ; “ let us 
speak of all that is to be done in the long time that must pass 
before we meet ” 

“ But why ‘ must ? ’ ’’said he, eagerly — “ why ’ must ? ’ If 
you knew how I looked forward to the blackness of this win- 
ter away up there — so far away from you that I shall forget 
the sound of your voice — oh ! you cannot know what it is to 
me ? ” 

He had sat down again, his 'eyes, with a sort of pained 
and hunted look in them, bent on the floor. 

“But there is a 'must,' you know,” she said, cheerfully, 
“ and we ought to be sensible folk and recognize it. You 
know I ought to have a probationary period, as it were — like 
a nun, you know, just to see if she is fit to — ” 

Here Miss White paused, with a little embarrassment • 
but presently she charged the difficulty, and said, with a 
slight laugh, — 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


217 


“To take the veil, in fact. You must give me time to 
become accustomed to a whole “heap of things : if we were 
to do anything suddenly now, we might blunder into some 
great mistake, perhaps irretrievable. I must train myself by 
degrees for another kind of life altogether ; and I am going 
to surprise you, Keith — I am indeed. If papa takes me to 
the Highlands next year, you won’t recognize me at all. I 
am going to read up all about the Highlands, and learn the 
(artans, and the names of fishes and birds; and I will walk 
in the rain and try to think nothing about it ; and perhaps I 
may learn a little Gaelic : indeed, Keith, when you see me 
in the Highlands, you will find me a thorough Highland-wo- 
man.” 

“You will never become a Highland-woman,” he said, 
with a grave kindness. “ Is it needful ? I would rather see 
you as you are than playing a part.” 

Her eyes expressed some quick wonder, for he had al- 
most quoted her father’s words to her. 

“ You would rather see me as I am ? ” she said, demurely. 
“ But what am I ? I don’t know myself.” 

“ You are a beautiful and gentle-hearted Englishwoman,” 
he said, with honest admiration — “ a daughter of the South. 
Why should you wish to be anything else ? When you come 
to us, I will show you a true Highland-woman — that is, my 
cousin Janet.” 

“ Now you have spoiled all my ambition,” she said, 
somewhat petulantly. “ I had intended spending all the 
winter in training myself to forget the habits and feelings of 
an actress, and I was going to educate myself for another 
kind of life ; and now I find that when I go to the Highlands 
you will compare me with your cousin Janet ! ” 

“ That is impossible,” said he, absently, for he was 
thinking of the time when the summer seas would be blue 
again, and the winds soft, and the sky clear ; and then he 
saw the white boat of the Umpire going merrily out to the 
great steamer to bring the beautiful stranger from the South 
to Castle Dare ! 

“ Ah, well, I am not going to quarrel with you on this 
our last day together,” she said, and she gently placed her 
soft white hand on the clinched fist that rested on the table 
“ I see you are in great trouble — I wish I could lessen it. 
And yet how could I wish that you could think of me less, 
even during the long winter evenings, when it will be so 
much more lonely for you than for me ? But you must leave 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


2[S 

me my hobby all the same; and you must think of me always 
as preparing myself and looking forward; for at least you 
know you will expect me to be able to sing a Highland 
ballad to your friends.” 

“Yes, yes,” he said, hastily, “ if it is all true — if it is all 
possible — what you speak of. Sometimes I think it is mack 
ness of me to fling away my only chance ; to have everything 
[ care for in the world near me, and to go away and perhaps 
never return. Sometimes I know in my heart that I shall 
never see you again — never after this day.” 

“Ah, now,” said she, brightly — for sh* feared this black 
demon getting possession of him again — “ I will kill that 
superstition right off. You shall see me after to-day; for as 
sure as my name is Gertrude White, I will go up to the rail- 
way station to-morrow* morning and see you off. There ! ” 

“ You will ? ” he said, with a flush of joy on his face. 

“ But I don’t want any one else to see me,” she said, 
looking down. 

“Oh, I will manage that,” he said, eagerly. “ I will get 
Major Stuart into the carriage ten minutes before the train 
starts.” 

“ Colonel Ross ? ” 

“ He goes back to Erith to-night.” 

“ And I will bring to the station, ’ said she, with some 
shy color in her face, “ a little present — if you should speak 
of me to your mother, you might give her this from me ; it 
belonged to my mother.” 

Could anything have been more delicately devised than 
this tender and timid message ? 

“ You have a woman’s heart,” he said. 

And then in the same low voice she began to explain 
that she would like him to go to the theatre that evening, 
and that perhaps he would go alone ; and would he do her 
the favor to be in a particular box ? She took a piece of 
paper from her purse, and shyly handed it to him How 
could he refuse ? — though he flushed slightly. It was a favor 
she asked. “ I will know where you are,” she said. 

And so he was not to bid good-by to her on this occa- 
sion, after all But he bade good-by to Mr. White, and to 
Miss Carry, wno was quite civil to him now that he was 
going away ; and then he went out into the cold and gray 
December afternoon. They were lighting the lamps. But 
gaslight throws no cheerfulness on a grave. 

He went to the theatre later on ; and the talisman she 


MACi.EOD OF DARE. 


2 19 

had given him took him into a box almost level with the 
stage, and so near to it that the glare of the footlights 
bewildered his eyes, until he retired into the corner. And 
once more he saw the puppets come and go, with the one 
live woman among them whose every tone of voice made his 
heart leap. And then this drawing-room scene, in which she 
comes in alone, and talking to herself ? She sits down to 
the piano carelessly. Some one enters unperceived, and 
stands silent there, to listen to the singing. And this aii 
that she sings, waywardly, like a light-hearted schoolgirl : — 

u Hi-ri-libhin o, Brae MacIntyre, 

Hi-ri-libhin o, Costly thy wooing ! 

Thou’st slain the maid. 

Hug-o-rin-o, ’Tis thy undoing ! 

Hi-ri-libhin o, Friends of my love, 

Hi-ri-libhin o, Do not upbraid him; 

He was leal 

Hug-o-rin-o, Chance betrayed him.” 

Macleod’s breathing came quick and hard. She had not 
sung the ballad of the brave MacIntyre when formerly he 
had seen the piece. Did she merely wish him to know, by 
this arch rendering of the gloomy song, that she was pursu- 
ing her Highland studies ? And then the last verse she 
sang in the Gaelic ! He was so near that he could hear this 
adjuration to the unhappy lover to seek his boat and fly, 
steering wide of Jura and avoiding Mull : — 

44 Hi-ri-libhin o, Buin Bkta, 

Hi-ri-libhin o, Fag an dathaich, 

Seachain Mule* 

Hug-o-ri-no ; Sna taodh Jura 1 ” 

Was she laughing, then, at her pronunciation of the Gaelic 
when she carelessly rose from the piano, and, in doing so, di- 
rected one glance to him that made him quail ? The foolish 
piece went on. She was more bright, vivacious, coquettish 
than ever : how could she have such spirits in view of the 
long separation that lay on his heart like lead ? Then, at the 
end of the piece, there was a tapping at the door, and an en- 
velope was handed in to him. It only contained a card, with 
the message 4 Good-night ? ” scrawled in pencil. It was the 
last time he ever was in any theatre. 

Then that next morning — cold and raw and damp, with a 
blustering northwest wind that seemed to bring an angry 


220 


MACLEOD OF DADE. 


summons from the far seas. At the station his hand was 
trembling like the hand of a drunken man ; his eyes wild and 
troubled : his face haggard. And as the moment arrived foi 
the train to start, he became more and more excited. 

“ Come and take your place, Macleod,” the major said, 
“ There is no use worrying about leaving. We have eater 
our cake. The frolic is at an end. All we can do is to sing, 
‘ Then fare you well, my Mary Blane,’ and put up with what- 
ever is ahead. If 1 could only have a drop of real, genuine 
Talisker to steady my nerves ” 

But here t Ve *najor, who had been incidentally leaning 
0 Jt of the window, CitugM sight of a figure, and instantly he 
withdrew his head. Macleod disappeared. 

That great, gaunt room — with the hollow footfalls o) 
strangers, and the cries outside. His face was quite whitt 
when he took her hand. 

“ I am very late,” she said, with a smile. 

He could not speak at all. He fixed his eyes on hers 
with a strange intensity, as if he would read her very soul ; 
and what could any one find there but a great gentleness and 
sincerity, and the frank confidence of one who had nothing 
to conceal ? 

“ Gertrude,” said he at last, “ whatever happens to us two, 
you will never forget that I loved you ? ” 

“ I think I may be sure of that,” she said, looking down. 

They rang a bell outside. 

“ Good-by, then.” 

He tightly grasped the hand he held ; once more he gazed 
into those clear and confiding eyes — with an almost piteously 
anxious look : then he kissed her and hurried away. But she 
was bold enough to follow. Her eyes were very moist. Her 
heart was beating fast. If Glenogie had there and then chal- 
lenged her, and said, “ Come, then , sweetheart ; will you fly 
with me l And the proud ?nother 7viil meet you. And the gentle 
cousin will attend on you. And Castle Dare will welcome the 
yotmg bride J ” — what would she have said ? The moment was 
over. She only saw the train go gently away from the sta- 
tion ; and she saw the piteous eyes fixed on hers ; and while 
he was in sight she waved her handkerchief. When the train 
had disappeared she turned away with a sigh. 

“ Poor fellow,” she was thinking to herself, “ he is very 
much in earnest — far more in earnest than even poor How- 
son. It would break my heart if I were *o bring him any 
trouble.” 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


221 


By the time she had got to the end of the platform, her 
thoughts had taken a more cheerful turn. 

“ Dear me,” she was saying to herself, “ I quite forgot to 
ask him whether my Gaelic was good ! ” 

When she had got into the street outside, the day was 
brightening. 

“ I wonder,” she was asking herself, “ whether Carry 
would come and look at that exhibition of water-colors ; and 
what would the cab fare be ? ” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A DISCLOSURE. 

And now he was all eagerness to brave the first dragon 
in his way — the certain opposition of this proud old lady at 
Castle Dare. No doubt she would stand aghast at the mere 
mention of such a thing ; perhaps in her sudden indignation 
she might utter sharp words that would rankle afterwards in 
the memory. In any case he knew the struggle would be 
long, and bitter, and harassing ; and he had not the skill of 
speech to persuasively bend a woman’s will. There was 
another way — impossible, alas ! — he had thought of. If only 
he could have taken Gertrude White by the hand — if only he 
could have led her up the hall, and presented her to his 
motheir, and said, “ Mother, this is your daughter ; is she not 
fit to be the daughter of so proud a mother ? ” — the fight 
would have been over. How could any one withstand the 
appeal of those fearless and tender clear eyes ? 

Impatiently he waited for the end of dinner on the even- 
ing of his arrival ; impatiently he heard Donald the piper 
lad, play the brave Salute — the wild, shrill yell overcoming 
the low thunder of the Atlantic outside, and he paid but little 
attention to the old and familiar Cumhadh na Clointie. Then 
Hamish put the whiskey and the claret on the table, and 
withdrew. They were left alone. 

“And now, Keith,” said his cousin Janet, with the wise 
gray eyes grown cheerful and kind, “ you will tell us about 


222 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


all the people you saw in London; and was there much 
gayety going on ? And did you see the Queen at all ? and 
did you give any fine dinners ? ” 

“ How can I answer you all at once, Janet ? ” said he, 
laughing in a somewhat nervous way. “ I did not see the 
Queen, for she was at Windsor ; and I did not give any fine 
dinners, for it is not the time of year in London to give fine 
iinners ; and indeed I spent enough money in that way when 
1 was in London before. But I saw several of the friends 
who were very kind to me when I was in London in the sum- 
mer. And do you remember, Janet, my speaking to you 
about the beautiful young lady — the actress I met at the 
house of Colonel Ross of Duntorme ? ” 

“Oh yes, I remember very well.” 

“Because,” said he — and his fingers were rather nervous 
as he took out a package from his breast-pocket — “ I have 
got some photographs of her for the mother and you to see. 
But it is little of any one that you can understand from pho- 
tographs. You would have to hear her talk, and see her 
manner, before you could understand why every one speaks 
so well of her, and why she is a friend with every one ” 

He had handed the packet to his mother, and the old 
lady had adjusted her eye-glasses, and was turning over the 
various photographs. 

“ She is very good-looking,” said Lady Macleod. “ Oh 
yes, she is very good-looking. And that is her sister ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

Janet was looking over them too. 

“ But where did you get all the photographs of her 
Keith ? ” she said. “ They are from all sorts of places — 
Scarborough, Newcastle, Brighton ” 

“ I got them from herself,” said he. 

“ Oh do you know her so well ? ” 

“ I know her very well. She was the most intimate friend 
of the people whose acquaintance I first made in London,” he 
said, simply, and then he turned to his mother ; “ I wish pho- 
tographs could speak, mother, for then you might make her 
acquaintance ; and as she is coming to the Highlands next 
year ” 

“ We have no theatre in Mull, Keith,” Lady Macleod 
said, with a smile. 

“ But by that time she will not be an actress at all : did I 
not tell you that before ? ” he said, eagerly. “ Did I not tell 
you that ? She is going to leave the stage — perhaps sooner 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


2*3 


or later, but certainly by that time ; and when she comes to the 
Highlands next year with her father, she will be travelling 
just like any one else. And I hope, mother, you won’t let 
them think that we Highlanders are less hospitable than the 
people of London.” 

He made the suggestion in an apparently careless fashion, 
but there was a painfull) anxious look in his eyes. Janel 
not iced that. 

“ It would be strange if they were to come to so unfre- 
quented a place as the west of Mull,” said Lady Macleod, 
somewhat coldly, as she put the photographs aside. 

“ But I have tcld them all about the place, and what they 
will see, and they are eagerly looking forward to it ; and you 
surely would not have them put up at the inn at Bunessan. 
mother ? ” 

“ Really, Keith, I think you have been imprudent. It 
was little matter our receiving a bachelor friend like Norman 
Ogilvie, but I don’t think we are quite in a condition to en- 
tertain strangers at Dare.” 

“No one objected to me as a stranger when I went to 
London,” said he, proudly. 

“ If they are anywhere in the neighborhood,” said Lady 
Macleod, “ I should be pleased to show them all the atten- 
tion in my power, as you say they were friendly with you in 
London ; but really, Keith, I don’t think you can ask me to 
invite two strangers to Dare — ” 

“ Then it is to the inn at Bunessan they must go ? ” he 
asked. 

“Now, auntie,” said Janet Macleod, with a gentle voice, 
“ you are not going to put poor Keith into a fix ; I know you 
won’t do that. I see the whole thing ; it is all because Keith 
was so thorough a Highlander. They were talking about 
Scotland : and no doubt he said there was nothing in the 
country to be compared with our islands, and caves, and cliffs. 
And then they spoke of coming, and of course he threw open 
the doors of the house to them. He would not have been a 
Highlander 'f he had done anything else, auntie ; and I know 
you won’t be the one to make him break off an invitation. 
And. if we cannot give them grand entertainments at Dare, 
we can give them a Highland welcome, anyway.” 

This appeal to the Highland pride of the mother was 
not to be withstood. 

“ Very well, Keith,” said she. “ We shall do what we 
con for your friends, though it isn’t much in this old place.” 


224 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


“ She will not look at it that way,” he said, eagerly, “ I 
know that. She will be proud to meet you, mother, and to 
shake hands with you, and to go about with you, and do just 
whatever you are doing — ” 

Lady Macleod started. 

“ How long do you propose this visit should last ? ” she 
said. 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” he said, hastily. " But you know, 
mother, you would not hurry your guests ; for I am sure you 
would be as proud as any one to show them that we had 
things worth seeing. We should take her to the cathedral 
at Iona on some moonlight night ; and then some day we 
could go out to the Dubh Artach lighthouse — and you know 
how the men are delighted to see a new face—” 

“ You would never think of that, Keith,” his cousin said. 
“ Do you think a London young lady would have the cour- 
age to be swung on to the rocks and to climb up all those steps 
outside ? ” 

“ She has the courage for that or for anything,” said he. 
** And then, you know, she would be greatly interested in the 
clouds of puffins and the skarts behind Staffa, and we would 
take her to the great caves in the cliffs at Gribun ; and I have 
no doubt she would like to go out to one of the uninhabited 
islands.” 

Lady Macleod had preserved a stern silence. When 
she had so far yielded as to promise to ask those two stran- 
gers to come to Castle Dare on their round of the Western 
Islands, she had taken it for granted that their visit would 
necessarily be of the briefest ; but the projects of which 
Keith Macleod now spoke seemed to suggest something like 
a summer passed at Dare. And he went on talking in this 
strain, nervously delighted with the pictures that each prom- 
ised excursion called up. Miss White would be charmed 
with this, and delighted with that. Janet would find her so 
pleasant a companion ; the mother would be inclined to pet 
her at first sight. 

“ She is already anxious to make your acquaintance 
mother,” said he to the proud old dame who sat there omin- 
ously silent. “ And she could think of no other message to 
send you than this — it belonged to her mother.” 

He opened the little package — of old lace, or something 
of that kind — and handed it to his mothe~ ; and at the same 
time, his impetuosity carrying him on, he said that perhaps, 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


2*5 

the mother would write now and propose the visit in the sum- 
mer. 

At this Lady Macleod’s surprise overcame her reserve. 

“ You must be mad, Keith ! To write in the middle of 
winter and send an invitation for tie summer! And really 
the whole thing is so extraordinary — a present coming to me 
from an absolute stranger — and that stranger an actress who 
s quite unknown to any one I know — ” 

“ M other, mother,” he cried, “ don’t say any more. She 
lias promised to be my wife.” 

Lady Macleod stared at him as if to see whether he had 
really gone mad, and rose and pushed back her chair. 

“Keith,” she said, slowly and with a cold dignity, “when 
you choose a wife, I hope I will be the first to welcome her, 
and 1 shall be proud to see you with a wife worthy of the 
name that you bear ; but in the meantime X do not think 
that such a subject should be made the occasion of a foolish 
jest.” 

And with that she left the apartment, and Keith Macleod 
turned in a bewildered sort of fashion to his cousin. Janet 
Macleod had risen too; she was regarding him with anxious 
and troubled and tender eyes. 

“Janet,” said he, “ it is no jest at all ! ” 

“ I know that,” said she, in a low voice, and her face was 
somewhat pale. “ I have known that. I knew it before you 
went away to England this last time.” 

And suddenly she went over to him and bravely held out her 
hand ; and there were quick tears in the beautiful gray eyes. 

“ Keith,” said she, “ there is no one will be more proud 
to see you happy than I ; and 1 will do what I can for you 
now, if you will let me, for 1 see /our whole heart is set on it; 
and how can I doubt that you hav^e chosen a good wife ? ”• 

“ Oh Janet, if you could only see her and know her ! ” 

She turned aside for a moment — only for a moment 
When he next saw her face she was quite gay. 

“ You must know, Keith,” said she, with a smile shining 
through the tears of the friendly eyes, “ that women-folk are 
very jealous ; and all of a sudden you come to auntie and 
me, and tell us that a stranger has taken away your heart 
from us and from Dare ; and you must expect us to be angry 
and resentful just a little bit at first.” 

“ I never could expect that from you, Janet/ said h*. 
knew that was impossible from you.” 


226 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


“As for auntie, then,” she said, warmly, “is it not rat- 
ural that she 3hould be surprised and perhaps offended ” 

“ But she says she does not believe it — that I am making 
a joke of it ” 

“ That is only her way of protesting, you know,” said the 
wise cousin. “ And you must expect her to be angry and ob- 
durate, because women have their prejudices, you know, 
Keith ; and this young lady — well, it is a pity she is no 
known to some one auntie knows.” 

“ She is known to Norman Ogilvie, and to dozens of Nor- 
man Ogilvie’s friends, and Major Stuart has seen her,” said he, 
quickly ; and then he drew back. “ But that is nothing. I 
do not choose to have any one to vouch for her.” 

“ I know that ; I understand that, Keith,” Janet Macleod 
said, gently. “ It is enough for me that you have chosen hei 
to be your wife ; I know you would choose a good woman to 
be your wife ; and it will be enough for your mother when 
she comes to reflect. But you must be patient.” 

“ Patient I would be, if it concerned myself alone,” said 
he ; “ but the reflection— the insult of the doubt ” 

“ Now, now, Keith,” said she, “ don’t let the hot blood of 
the Macleods get the better of you. You must be patient, 
and considerate. If you will sit down now quietly, and tell 
me all about the young lady, I will be your ambassSador, if 
you like ; and I think I will be able to persuade auntie.” 

“ I wonder if there ever was any woman as kind as you 
are, Janet ? ” said he, looking at her with a sort of wondering 
admiration. 

“ You must not say that any more now,” she said, with a 
smile. “ You must consider the young lady you have chosen 
as perfection in all things. And this is a small matter. 
If auntie is difficult to persuade, and should protest, and sc 
forth, what she says will not hurt me, whereas it might hurt 
f you very sorely. And now you will tell me all about the 
young lady, for I must have my hands full of arguments when 
I go to your mother.” 

And so this Court of Inquiry was formed, with one wit- 
ness not altogether unprejudiced in giving his evidence, and 
with a judge ready to become the accomplice of the witness 
at any point. Somehow Macleod avoided speaking of Ger- 
trude White’s appearance. Janet was rather a plain woman, 
despite those tender Celtic eyes. He spoke rather of her 
filial duty and her sisterly affection ; he minutely desci ibed 
her qualities as a honse-mktress ; and he was enthusiastic 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 


227 


about the heroism she had shown in determining to throw 
aside the glittering triumphs of her calling to live a simpler 
and wholesomer life. That passage in the career of Miss 
Gertrude White somewhat puzzled Janet Macleod. If it were 
the case that the ambitions and jealousies and simulated 
emotions of a life devoted to art had a demoralizing end de- 
grading effect on the character, why had not the your g lady 
made the discovery a little earlier ? What was the reason of 
her very sudden conversion ? It was no doubt very noble on 
her part, if she really were convinced that this continual stir- 
ring uj) of sentiment without leading to practical issues had 
an unwholesome influence on her woman’s nature, to volun- 
tarily surrender all the intoxication of success, with its praises 
and flatteries. But why was the change in her opinion so 
sudden ? According to Macleod’s own account. Miss Ger- 
trude White, when he first went up to London, was wholly 
given over to the ambition of succeeding in her profession. 
She was then the “ white slave.” She made no protest 
against the repeatedly announced theories of her f ather to the 
effect that an artist ceased to live for himself or herself, and 
became merely a medium for the expression of the emotions 
of others. Perhaps the gentle cousin Janet would have had a 
clearer view of the whole case if she had known that Miss Ger- 
trude White’s awakening doubts as to the wholesomeness of 
simulated emotions on the human soul were strictly coincident 
in point of time with her conviction that at any moment she 
pleased she might call herself Lady Macleod. 

With all the art he knew he described the beautiful small 
courtesies and tender ways of the little household at Rose 
Bank ; and he made it appear that this youug lady, brought 
up aipidst the sweet observances of the South, was making 
an enormous sacrifice in offering to brave, for his sake, the 
transference to the harder and harsher ways of the North. 

“ And, you know, Keith, she speaks a good deal for her 
self,” Janet Macleod said, turning over the photographs and 
looking at them perhaps a little wistfully. “It is a pretty 
face. It must make many friends for her. If she were here 
herself now, I don’t think auntie would hold out for a 
momen 

“That is what I know,” said he, eagerly. “That is why 
I am anxious she should come here. And if it were only 
possible to bring her now, there would be no more trouble ; 
and I think we could get her to leave the stage — -at least I 
would try. But how could we ask her to Dare in the winte^ 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


228 

time ? The sea and the rain would frighten her, and she 
would never consent to live here. And perhaps she needs 
time to quite make up her mind. She said she would edu- 
cate herself all the winter through, and that, when I saw her 
again, she would be a thorough Highland woman. That 
shows you how willing she is to make any sacrifice if she 
thinks it right.” 

“But if she is convinced,” said Janet, doubtfully, “that 
she ought to leave the stage, why does she not do so at 
once ? You say her father has enough money to support the 
family ? ” 

“ Oh yes, he has,” said Macleod ; and then he added, 
with some hesitation, “well, Janet, I did not like to press 
that. She has already granted so much. But I might ask 
her.” 

At this moment Lady Macleod’s maid came into the hall 
and said that her mistress wished to see Miss Macleod. 

“ Perhaps auntie thinks I am conspiring with you Keith,” 
she said, laughing, when the girl had gone. “Well, you will 
leave the whole thing in my hands, and I will do what I can. 
And be patient and reasonable, Keith, even if your mother 
won’t hear of it for a day or two. We women are very prej- 
udiced against each other, you know ; and we have quick 
tempers, and we want a little coaxing and persuasion — that 
is all.” 

“You have always been a good friend to me, Janet,” he 
said. 

“ And I hope it will all turn out for your happiness, 
Keith,” she said, gently, as she left. 

But as for Lady Macleod, when Janet reached her room, 
the haughty old dame was “ neither to hold nor to bind.” 
There was nothing she would not have done for this favorite 
son ©f hers but this one thing. Give her consent to such a 
mairiage ? The ghosts of all the Macleods of Dare would 
call shame on her ! 

“Oh, auntie,” said the patient Janet, “he has been a 
good son to you ; and you must have known he would marry 
some day.” 

“ Marry ? ” said the old lady, and she turned a quick eye 
on Janet herself. “ I was anxious to see him married ; and 
when he was choosing a wife I think he might have looked 
nearer home, Janet.” 

“ What a wild night it is ! ” said Janet Mackleod quickly, 
and she went for a moment to the window. “ The Dunara 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


229 


will be coming round the Mull of Cantire just about now. 
And where is the present, auntie, that the young lady sent 
you? You must write and thank her for that, at all events 
and shall I write the letter for you in the morning ? ” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 

Lady Macleod remained obdurate ; Janet went about the 
house with a sad look on her face ; and Macleod, tired of the 
formal courtesy that governed the relations between his 
mother and himself, spent most of his time in snipe and duck 
shooting about the islands — braving the wild winds and wilder 
seas in a great, open lugsailed boat, the Umpire having long 
been sent to her winter-quarters. But the harsh, rough life had 
its compensations. Letters came from the South — treasures to 
be pored over night after night with an increasing wonder 
and admiration. Miss Gertrude White was a charming letter- 
writer ; and now there was no restraint at all over her frank 
confessions and playful humors. Her letters were a prolonged 
chat — bright, rambling, merry, thoughtful, just as the mood 
occurred. She told him of her small adventures and the in- 
cidents of her everyday life, so that he could delight himself 
with vivid pictures of herself and her surroundings. And 
again and again she hinted rather than said that she was 
continually thinking of the Highlands, and of the great 
change in store for her. 

“ Yesterday morning,” she wrote, “ I was going down the 
Edgeware Road, and whom should I see but two small boys, 
dressed as young Highlanders, staring into the window of a 
toy-shop. Stalwart young fellows they were, with ruddy com- 
plexions and brown legs, and their Glengarries coquettishly 
placed on the side of their head ; and I could see at once 
that their plain kilt was no holiday dress. How could I help 
speaking to them ? I thought perhaps they had come from 
Mull. And so I went up to them and asked if they would let 
me buy a toy for each of them. ‘ We dot money,’ says the 
younger, with a bold stare at my. impertinence. * But you 
can’t refuse to accept a present from a lady ? ’ I said. * Oh 


23 ° 


MAC/. ROD OF DARE. 


no, ma am/ said the elder boy, and he politely raised his cap 
and the accent of his speech — well, it made my heart jump, 
But I was very nearly disappointed when I got them into the 
shop ; for I asked what their name was ; and they answered 
‘Lavender.’ 4 Why, surely, that is not a Highland, name/ I 
said. 4 No, ma’am/ said the elder lad ; 4 but my mamma is 
from the Highlands, and we are from the Highlands, and we 
are going back to spend the New-year at home.’ 4 And where 
is your home ? ’ I asked ; but I have forgotten the name of 
.he place ; I understood it was somewhere away in the North. 
And then I asked f hem if they had ever been to Mull. 4 We 
have passed it in the Clansman / said the elder boy. 4 And 
do you know one Sir Keith Macleod there ? ” I asked. 4 Oh 
no, ma’am/ said he, staring at me with his clear blue eyes as 
if I was a very stupid person, 4 The Macleods are from Skye.’ 
4 But surely one of them may live in Mull/ I suggested. 4 The 
Macleods are from Skye/ he maintained, 4 and my papa was 
at Dunvegan last year.’ Then came the business of choosing 
the toys ; and the smaller child would have a boat, though his 
elder brother laughed at him, and said something about a 
former boat of his having been blown out into Loch Rogue 
— which seemed to me a strange name for even a Highland 
loch. But the elder lad, he must needs have a sword ; and 
when I asked him what he wanted that for, he said, quite 
proudly, 4 To kill the Frenchmen with.’ 4 To kill Frenchmen 
with ? ’ I said ; for this young fire-eater seemed to mean what 
he said. 4 Yes, ma’am/ said he, 4 for they shoot the sheep 
out on the Flannan Islands when no one sees them ; but we 
will catch them some day.’ I was afraid to ask him where 
the Flannan Islands were, for I could see he was already re 
garding me as a very ignorant person ; so I had their toys 
tied up for them, and packed them off home. 4 And when you 
get home/ I said to them, 4 you will give my compliments to 
your mamma, and say that you got the ship and the sword 
from a lady who has a great liking for the Highland people. 

4 Yes, ma’am,’ says he, touching his cap again with a proud 
politeness ; and then they went their ways, and I saw them 
no more.” 

Then the Christmas-time came, with all its mystery, and 
friendly observances, and associations ; and she described to 
him how Carry and she were engaged in decorating certain 
schools in which they were interested, and how a young curate 
had paid her a great deal of attention, until some one went 


MACLEOD OF L. ARE. 


231 


and told him, as a cruel joke, that Miss White was a cele 
brated dancer at a music-hall. 

Then, on Christmas morning, behold, the very first snow 
of the year ! She got up early ; she went out alone ; t he 
holiday world of London was not yet awake. 

“I never in my life saw anything' more beautiful/ she 
wrote to him, “ than Regent’s Park this morning, in a pale 
fog, with just a sprinkling of snow on the green of the grass, 
and one great yellow mansion shining through the mist — the 
sunlight on it — like some magnificent distant palace. And I 
said to myself, if I were a poet or a painter I would take the 
common things, and show people the wonder and the beauty 
of them ; for I believe the sense of wonder is a sort of light 
that shines in the soul of the artist ; and the least bit of the 
* denying spirit ’ — the utterance of the word connu — snuffs it 
out at once. But then, dear Keith, I caught myself asking 
what I had to do with all these dreams, and these theories 
that papa would like to have talked about. What had I to 
do with art ? And then I grew miserable. Perhaps the 
loneliness of the park, with only those robust, hurrying 
strangers crossing, blowing their fingers, and pulling their 
cravats closer, had affected me ; or perhaps it was that I sud- 
denly found how helpless I am by myself. I want a sustain- 
ing hand, Keith ; and that is now far away from me. I can 
do anything with myself of set purpose, but it doesn’t last. 
If you remind me that one ought generously to overlook 
the faults of others — I generously overlook the faults of 
others — for five minutes. If you remind me that to 
harbor jealousy and envy is mean and contemptible, I make 
an effort, and throw out all jealous and envious thoughts — for 
five minutes. And so you see I got discontented with myself ; 
and I hated two men who were calling loud jokes at each 
other as they parted different ways ; and I marched home 
through the fog, feeling rather inclined to quarrel with some- 
body. By the way, did you ever notice that you often can 
detect the relationship between people by their similar mode 
of walking, and that more easily than by any likeness of 
face ? As I strolled home, I could tell which of the couples 
of men walking before me were brothers by the similar bend- 
ing of the knee and the similar gait, even when their features 
were quite unlike. There was one man whose fashion of 
walking was really very droll ; his right knee gave a sort of 
preliminary shake as if it was uncertain which way the foot 
wanted to go. For the life of me I could ? ; ot help imitating 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 


232 

him ; and then I wondered what his face woujd be like if he 
were suddenly to turn round and catch me ” 

That still dream of Regent’s Park in sunlight and snow 
he carried about with him as a vision — a picture — even 
amidst the blustering westerly winds, and the riven seas that 
sprung over the rocks and swelled and roared away into the 
caves of Gribun and Bourg. There was no snow as yet up 
here at Dare, but wild tempests shaking the house to its 
i foundations, and brief gleams of stormy sunlight lighting up 
the gray spindrift as it was whirled shoreward from the 
breaking seas ; and then days of slow and mournful rain, 
with Staffa, and Lunga, and the Dutchman become mere dull 
patches of blurred purple — when they were visible at all — on 
the leaden-hued and coldly rushing Atlantic. 

“ I have passed through the gates of the Palace of Art/' 
she wrote, two days later, from the calmer and sunnier 
South ; “ and I have entered its mysterious halls, and I have 
breathed for a time the hushed atmosphere of wonderland 
Do you remember meeting a Mr. Lemuel at any time at 
Mrs. Ross’s — a man with a strange, gray, tired face, and 
large, wan, blue eyes, and an air as if he were walking in a 
dream ? Perhaps not ; but, at all events, he is a great 
painter, who never exhibits to the vulgar crowd, but who is 
worshipped by a select circle of devotees ; and his house is 
a temple dedicated to high art, and only profound believers 
are allowed to cross the threshold. Oh dear me 1 I am not 
a believer; but how can I help that? Mr. Lemuel is a 
friend of papa’s, however ; they have mysterious talks over 
milk-jugs of colored stone, and small pictures with gilt skies, 
and angels in red and blue. Well, yesterday he called on 
papa, and requested his permission to ask me to sit — or, 
rather, stand — for the heroine of his next great work, which 
* is to be an allegorical one, taken from the ‘ Faery Queen ’ or 
the * Morte d ’Arthur,’ or some such book. I protested; it 
was no use. ‘ Good gracious, papa,’ I said, ‘ do you know 
ft hat he will make of me? He will give me a dirty brown 
face, and I shall wear a dirty green dress ; and no doubt 1 
shall be standing beside a pool of dirty blue water, with a 
purple sky overhead, and a white moon in it. The 
chances are he will dislocate my neck, and give me gaunt 
cheeks like a corpse, with a serpent under my foot, or a flam- 
ing dragon stretching his jaws behind my back.’ Papa was 
deeply shocked at my levity. Was it for me, an artist 
(blft3s the mark !), to baulk the high aims of art ? Besides 


2 33 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 

it was vaguely hinted that, to reward me, certain afternoon- 
parties were to be got up ; and then, when I had got out of Mer- 
lin-land, and assured myself I was human by eating lunch, I 
was to meet a goodly company of distinguished folk — great 
poets, and one or two more mystic painters, a dilettante duke, 
and the nameless crowd of worshippers who would come :o 
sit at the feet of all these, and sigh adoringly, and shake 
their heads over the Philistinism of English society. I don’t' 
care for ugly mediaeval maidens myself, nor for allegoiical 
serpents, nor for bloodless men with hollow cheeks, supposed 
to represent soldierly valor ; if I were an artist, I would 
rather show people the beauty of a common brick wall when 
the red winter sunset shines along it. But perhaps that is 
only my ignorance, and I may learn better before Mr. Lemuel 
has done with me.” 

When Macleod first read this passage, a dark expression 
came over his face. He did not like this new project. 

“ And so, yesterday afternoon,” the letter continued, 
**papa and I went to Mr. Lemuel’s house, which is only a 
short way from here ; and we entered, and found ourselves 
in a large circular and domed hall, pretty nearly dark, and 
with a number of closed doors. It was all hushed, and mys- 
terious, and dim ; but there was a little more light when the 
man opened one of these doors and showed us into a cham- 
ber — or, rather, one of a series of chambers — that seemed to 
me at first like a big child’s toy-house, all painted and gilded 
with red and gold. It was bewilderingly full of objects that 
had no ostensible purpose. You could not tell whether any 
one of these rooms was dining-room, or drawing-room, or any- 
thing else ; it was all a museum of wonderful cabinets filled 
with different sorts of ware, and trays of uncut precious stones, 
and Eastern jewelry, and what not ; and then you discov- 
ered that in the panels of the cabinets were painted series of 
allegorical heads on a gold background ; and then perhaps 
you stumbled on a painted glass window where no window 
should be. It was a splendid blaze of color, no doubt. One 
began to dream of Byzantine emperors, and Moorish con- 
querors, and Constantinople gilt domes. But then — mark 
the dramatic effect ! — away in the blaze of the farther cham- 
ber appears a solemn, slim, bowed figure, dressed all in black 
— the black velvet coat seemed even blacker than black — 
and the mournful-eyed man approached, and he gazed upon 
us a grave welcome from the pleading, affected, tired eyes. 


234 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


He had a slight cough, too, which I rather fancied was as* 
surned for the occasion. Then we all sat down, and he talked 
to us in a low, sad, monotonous voice ; and there was a smell 
of frankincense about — no doubt a band of worshippers had 
lately been visiting at the shrine ; and, at papa’s request, he 
showed me some of his trays of jewels with a wearied air. 
And some drawings of Botticelli that papa had been speak- 
ing about ; would he look at them now ? Oh, dear Keith, the 
wickedness of the human imagination ! as he went about in 
this limp and languid fashion, in the hushed room, with the 
old-fashioned scent in the air, I wished I was a street boy. I 
wished I could get close behind him, and give a sudden yell ! 
Would he fly into bits ? Would he be so startled into natural- 
ness as to swear ? And all the time that papa and he talked, 
I dared scarcely lift my eyes ; for 1 could not but think of 
the effect of that wild ‘ Hi ! ’ And what if I had burst into a 
fit of laughter without any apparent cause ? ” 

Apparently Miss White had not been much impressed by 
her visit to Mr. Lemuel’s palace of art, and she made there- 
after but slight mention of it, though she had been prevailed 
upon to let the artist borrow the expression of her face for 
his forthcoming picture. She had other things to think 
about now, when she wrote to Castle Dare. 

For one day Lady Macleod went into her son’s room and 
said to him, “ Here is a letter, Keith, which I have written to 
Miss White. I wish you to read it.” 

He jumped to his feet, and hastily ran his eyes over the 
letter. It was a trifle formal, it is true ; but it was kind, and 
it expressed the hope that Miss White and her father would 
next summer visit Castle Dare. The young man threw his 
arms round his mother’s neck and kissed her. “ That is like 
a good mother,” said he. “ Do you know how happy she 
will be when she receives this message from you ? ” 

Lady Macleod left him the letter to address. He read 
it over carefully ; and though he saw that the handwriting 
was the handwriting of his mother, he knew that the spirit 
that had prompted these words was that of the gentle cousin 
J anet. 

This concession had almost been forced from the old lady 
by the patience and mild persistence of Janet Macleod ; but 
if anything could have assured her that she had acted prop- 
erly in yielding, it was the answer which Miss Gertrude 
White sent in return. Miss White wrote that letter several 
times over before sending it off, and it was a clever piece of 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 


235 

composition. The timid expressions of giatitude the hints 
of the writer’s sympathy with the romance of the Highlands 
and the Highland character; the deference shown by youth 
to age ; and here and there just the smallest glimpse of hu- 
mor, to show that Miss White, though very humble and 
respectful and all that, was not a mere fool. Lady Macleod 
was pleased by this letter. She showed it to her son one 
n'ght at dinner. “ It is a pretty hand,” she remarked, criti- 
cally. 

Keith Macleod read it with a proud heart. “ Can you not 
gather what kind of woman she is from that letter alone ? ” 
he said, eagerly. “I can almost hear her talk in it. Janet, 
will you read it too ? ” 

Janet Macleod took the small sheet of perfumed papOr 
and read it calmly, and handed it back to her aunt. “ It is 
a nice letter,” said she. “ We must try to make Dare as 
bright as maybe when she comes to see us, that she will not 
go back to England with a bad account of the Highland peo- 
ple.” That was all that was said at the time about the prom- 
ised visit of Miss Gertrude White to Castle Dare. It was only 
as a visitor that Lady Macleod had consented to receive her. 
There was no word mentioned on either side of anything fur- 
ther than that. Mr. White and his daughter were to be in the 
Highlands next summer ; they would be in the neighborhood 
of Castle Dare ; Lady Macleod would be glad to entertain 
them for a time, and make the acquaintance of two of her 
son’s friends. At all events, the proud old lady would be 
able to see what sort of woman this was whom Keith Mac- 
leod had chosen to be his wife. 

And so the winter days and nights and weeks dragged 
slowly by ; but always, from time to time, came those merry 
and tender and playful letters from the South, which he lis- 
tened to rather than read. It was her very voice that was 
speaking to him, and in imagination he went about with her. 
He strolled with her over the crisp grass, whitened with hoar- 
frost, of the Regent’s Park ; he hurried home with her in the 
chill gray afternoons — the yellow gas-lamps being lit — to the 
little tea-table. When she visited a picture gallery, she sent 
him a full report of that, even. 

“ Why is it,” she asked, “ that one is so delighted to look 
a long distance, even when the view is quite uninteresting ? 
I wonder if that is why I greatly prefer landscapes to figure 
subjects. The latter always seem to me to he painted 
from models just come from the Hampstead Road. There was 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


236 

scarcely a sea-piece in the exhibition that was not spoiled by 
figures, put in for the sake of picturesqueness, 1 suppose. 
Why, when you are by the sea you want to be alone, surely ! 
Ah, if 1 could only nave a look at those winter seas you speak 
of !” 

He did not echo that wish at all. Even as he read he 
could hear the thunderous booming of the breakers into the 
giant caves. Was it for a pale rose-leaf to brave that fell wind 
that tore the waves into spindrift, and howled through the 
lonely chasms of Ben-an-Sloich ? 

To one of these precious documents, written in the small, 
neat hand on pink-toned and perfumed paper, a postcript was 
added : “ If you keep my letters,” she wrote, and he laughed 
when he saw that if, “ I wish you would go back to the one 
in which I told you of papa and me calling at Mr. Lemuel’s 
house, and I wish, dear Keith, you w r ould burn it. I am sure 
it was very cruel and unjust. One often makes the mistake 
of thinking people affected when there is no affectation about 
them. And if a man has injured his health and made an in- 
valid of himself, through his intense and constant devotion to 
his work, surely that is not anything to be laughed at ? What- 
ever Mr. Lemuel may be, he is, at all events, desperately in 
earnest. The passion that he has for his art, and his patience 
and concentration and self-sacrifice, seems to me to be noth- 
ing less than noble. And so, dear Keith, will you please to 
burn that impertinent letter ? ” 

Macleod sought out the letter and carefully read it over, 
He came to the conclusion that he could see no just reason 
for complying with her demand. Frequently first impressions 
are best. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A GRAVE. 


In the by-gone days, this eager, active, stout-limbed 
young fellow had met the hardest winter with a glad heart. 
He rejoiced in its thousand various pursuits ; he set his 
teeth against the driving hail ; he laughed at the drenching 
spray that sprung high over the bows of his boat ; and what 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


237 

harm ever came to him if he took the short-cuc across the 
upper reaches of Loch Scridain, wading waist-deep through 
a mile of sea-w r ater on a bitter January day? And where 
was the loneliness of his life when always, wherever he went 
by sea or shore, he had these old friends around him — the 
red-beaked sea-pyots whirring along the rocks; and the 
startled curlews, whistling their warning note across the sea ; 
and the shy duck swimming far out an the smooth lochs ; 
to say nothing of the black game that would scarcely move 
:rom their perch on the larch-tress as he approached, and 
the deer that were more distinctly visible on the far heights 
of Ben-an-Sloich when a slight sprinkling of snow had fallen ? 

But now all this was changed. The awful ness of the 
dark winter-time amidst those Northern seas overshadowed 
him. “ It is like going into a grave,” he had said to her. 
And, with all his passionate longing to see her and have 
speech of her once more, how could he dare to ask her to 
approach these dismal solitudes ? Sometimes he- tried to 
picture her coming, and to read in imagination the look on 
her face. See now ! — how she clings terrified to the side of 
the big open packet-boat that crosses the Frith of Lorn, and 
she dares not look abroad on the howling waste of waves. 
The mountains of Mull rise sad and cold and distant before 
her ; there is no bright glint of sunshine to herald her ap- 
proach. This small dog-cart, now : it is a frail thing with 
which to plunge into the wild valleys, for surely a gust of 
wind might whirl into the chasm of roaring waters below 
Glen-More : who that has ever seen Glen-More on a lowering 
January day will ever forget it — its silence, its loneliness, its 
vast and lifeless gloom ? Her face is pale now ; she sits 
speechless and awestricken ; for the mountain-walls that 
overhang this sombre ravine seem ready to fall on her, and 
there is an awful darkness spreading along their summits 
under the heavy swathes of cloud. And then those black 
lakes far down in the lone hollows, more death-like and terri- 
ble than any tourist-haunted Loch Coruisk : would she not 
turn to him and, with trembling hands, implore him to take 
her back and away to the more familiar and bearable South ? 
He began to see all these things with her eyes. He began 
to fear the awful things of the winter-time and the seas. The 
glad heart had gone out of him. 

Even the beautiful aspects of the Highland winter had 
something about them — an isolation, a terrible silence — that 
he grew almost to dread. What was this strange thing, foi 


AfACLEOD OF DARE . 


238 

example ? Early « the morning he looked from the win 
dows of his room, and he could have imagined he was not at 
Dare at all. All the familiar objects of sea and shore had 
disappeared; this was a new world — a world of fantastic 
shapes, all moving and unknown — a world of vague masses 
of gray, though here and there a gleam of lemon-color shin- 
ing through the fog showed that the dawn was reflected on 
u glassy sea. Then he began to make out the things around 
him. That great range of purple mountains was Ulva — 
Ulva transfigured and become Alpine ! Then those wan # 
gleams of yellow light on the sea? — he went to the other 
window, and behold ! the heavy bands of cloud that lay 
across the unseen peaks of Ben-an-Sloich had parted, and 
there was a blaze of clear, metallic, green sky; and the 
clouds bordering on that gleam of light were touched with a 
smoky and stormy saffron-hue that flashed and changed 
amidst the seething and twisting shapes of the fog and the 
mist. He turned to the sea again — what phantom-ship was 
this that appeared in mid-air, and apparently moving when 
there was no wind ? He heard the sound of oars ; the huge 
vessel turned out to be only the boat of the Gometra men 
going out to the lobster-traps. The yellow light on the 
glassy plain waxes stronger; new objects appear through the 
shifting fog ; until at last a sudden opening shows him a 
wonderful thing far away — apparently at the very confines of 
the world — and awful in its solitary splendor. For that is 
the distant island of Staffa, and it has caught the colors of 
the dawn ; and amidst the cold grays of the sea it shines a 
pale, transparent rose. 

He would like to have sent her, if he had got any skill of 
the brush, some brief memorandum of that beautiful thing ; 
but indeed, and in any case, that was not the sort of painting 
she seemed to care for just then. Mr. Lemuel, and his Pal- 
ace of Art, and his mediajval saints, and what not, which had 
all for a time disappeared from Miss White’s letters, began 
now to monopolize agood deal of space there ; and there was 
no longer any impertinent pi ivfulness in her references, but, 
on the contrary, a respect and admiration that occasionally 
almost touched enthusiasm. From hints more than state- 
ments Macleod gathered that Miss White had been made 
much of by the people frequenting Mr. Lemuel’s house. She 
had there met one or two gentlemen who had written very 
fine things about her in the papers ; and certain highly dis- 
tinguished people had been good enough to send her cards 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


*39 

of invitation ; i. ad she had once or twice been persuaded to 
read some piece of dramatic poetry at Mr. Lemuel’s after- 
noon parties; and she even suggested that Mr. Lemuel 
had almost as much as said that he would like to paint her por- 
trait. Mr. Lemuel had also offered her, but she had refused 
to accept, a small but marvellous study by Pinturicchio, which 
most people considered the gem of his collection. 

Macleod, reading and re-reading these letters many a time 
in the solitudes of western Mull, came to the opinion that 
there must be a good deal of amusement going on in London. 
And was it not natural that a young girl should like to be 
petted, and flattered, and made much of ? Why should he 
complain when she wrote to say how she enjoyed this and was 
charmed by that ? Could he ask her to exchange that gay 
and pleasant life for this hibernation in Mull ? Sometimes 
for days together the inhabitants of Castle Dare literally lived 
in the clouds. Dense bands of white mist lay all along the 
cliffs ; and they lived in a semi-darkness, with the mourn- 
ful dripping of the rain on the wet garden, and the mournful 
wash of the sea all around the shores. He was glad, then, 
that Gertrude White was not at Castle Dare. 

But sometimes, when he could not forbear opening his 
heart to her, and pressing her for some more definite assur- 
ance as to the future, the ordinary playful banter in which she 
generally evaded his urgency gave place to atone of coldness 
that astonished and alarmed him. Why should she so cruelly 
resent this piteous longing of his ? Was she po longer, then, 
so anxious to escape from the thraldom that had seemed so 
hateful to her? 

“ Hamish,” said Macleod, abruptly, after reading one of 
these letters, “ come, now, we will go and overhaul the Um- 
pire, for you know she is to be made very smart this summer ; 
for we have people coming all the way fiom London to Ddrc, 
and they must not think we do not know in Mull how to keep 
a yacht in shipshape.” 

“ Ay, sir,” said Hamish ; “ and if we do not kr^pw that in 
Mull, where will they be likely to know that?” > 

“ And you will get the cushions in the saloon covered 
again ; and we will have a new mirror for the ladies’ cabin, 
and Miss Macleod, if you ask her, will put a piece of lace 
round the top of that, to make it look like a lady’s room. 
And then, you know, Hamish, you can show the little boy 
Johnny Wickes how to polish the brass ; and he will polish 
the brass in the ladies’ cabin until it is as white as silver. 


MACLEOD OF DARK, 


240 

Because, you know, Hamish, they have very fine yachts in 
the South. They are like hotels on the water. We must try 
to be as smart as we can.” 

“ I do not know about the hotels,” said Hamish, scorn- 
fully. “ And perhaps it is a fine thing to hef a hotel ; and 
Mr. M’Arthur they say he is a ferry rich man, and he has 
ferry fine pictures too ; but I was thinking that if I will be 
off the Barra Head on a bad night — between the Sgirobh 
1 han and the Barra Head on a bad night — it is not any hoiel 
1 will be wishing that I wass in, but a good boat. And the 
Umpire she is a good boat; and 1 hef no fear of going any- 
where in the world with her — to London or to Inverary, ay, 
or the Queen’s own castle on the island — and she will go 
there safe, and she will come back safe ; and if she is not a 
hotel — well, perhaps she will not be a hotel ; but she is a fine 
good boat, and she lias swinging lamps whatever.” 

But even the presence of the swinging-lamps, which Ham- 
ish regarded as the highest conceivable point of luxury, did 
little to lessen the dolorousness of the appearance of the 
poor old Umpire. As Macleod, seated in the stern of the 
gig, approached her, she looked like some dingy old 
hulk relegated to the duty of keeping stores. Her topmast 
and bowsprit removed ; not a stitch of cord on her ; only the 
black iron shrouds remaining of all her rigging ; her skylights 
and companion-hatch covered with waterproof — it was a sorry 
spectacle. And then when they went below, even the swing- 
ing-lamps were blue-moulded and stiff. There was an odor 
of damp straw throughout. All the cushions and carpets had 
been removed ; there was nothing but the bare wood of the 
floor and the couches and the table ; with a match-box satu- 
rated with wet, an empty wine-bottle, a newspaper five months 
old, a rusty corkscrew, a patch of dirty water — the leakage 
( from the skylight overhead. 

I That was what Hamish saw. 

What Macleod saw, as he stood there absently staring at 
the bare wood, was very different. It was a beautiful, com 
fortable saloon that he saw, all brightly furnished and gilded, 
and there was a dish of flowers — heather and rowan-berries 
intermixed — on the soft red cover of the table. And who is 
this that is sitting there, clad in sailor-like blue and white, 
and laughing, as she talks in her soft English speech ? He is 
telling her that, if she means to be a sailor’s bride, she must 
give up the wearing of gloves on board ship, although, to be 
sure, those gloved small hands look pretty enough as they 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


241 


rest on the table and play with a bit of bell-heather. How 
bright her smile is. She is in a mood for teasing people. 
The laughing face, but for the gentleness of the eyes, would 
be audacious. They say that the width between those long- 
lashed eyes is a common peculiarity of the artist’s face ; but she 
is no longer an artist ; she is only the brave voung yachtswo- 
man who lives at Castle Dare. The shepherds know her, and 
answer her in the Gaelic when she speaks to them 'n ! pas» 
ing ; the sailors know her, and would adventure their lives 
to gratify her slightest wish ; and the bearded fellows who 
live their solitary life far out at Dubh Artach lighthouse, 
when she goes out to them with a new parcel of books and 
magazines, do not know how to show their gladness at the 
very sight of her bonnie face. There was once an actress of 
the same name, but this is quite a different woman. And to- 
morrow — do you know what she is going to do to-morrow ? — 
to-morrow she is going away in this very yacht to a loch in 
the distant island of Lewis, and she is going to bring back 
with her some friends of hers who live there ; and there will 
be high holiday at Castle Dare. An actress? Her cheeks 
are too sun-browned for the cheeks of an actress. 

“ Well, sir ? ” Hamish said, at length ; and Macleod 
started. 

* Very well, then,” he said, impatiently, “ why don’t you 
,go on deck and find out where the leakage of the skylight is ? ” 

Hamish was not used to being addressed in this fashion, 
and walked away with a proud and hurt air. As he ascended 
the companion-way, he was muttering to himself in his native 
tongue, — 

“ Yes, I am going to find out where the leakage is, but 
perhaps it would be easier to find out below where the leak- 
age is. If there is something the matter with the keel, is it 
the cross-trees you will go to to look for it ? But I do not know 
what has come to the young master of late.” 

When Keith Macleod was alone, he sat down on the 
wooden bench and took out a letter, and tried to find there 
some assurance tha? this beautiful vision of his would some 
day be realized. He read it and re-read it ; but his anxious 
scrutiny only left him the more disheartened. He went up 
on deck. He talked to Hamish in a perfunctory manner 
about the smartening up of the Umpire. He appeared to 
have lost interest in that already. 

And then again he would seek relief in hard work, and 
t*y to forget altogether this hated time of enforced absence. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


242 

One night word was brought by some one that the typhoid 
fever had broken out in the ill-drained cottages of Iona, and 
he said at once that next morning he would go round to Bun- 
essan and ask the sanitary inspector there to be so kind as 
to inquire into this matter, and see whether something could 
not be done to improve these hovels. 

“ I am sure the duke does not know of it, Keith,” his 
cousin Janet said, “or he would have a great alteration 
made.” 

“It is easy to make alterations,” said he, “but it is not 
easy to make the poor people take advantage of them. They 
have such good health from the sea-air ,that they will not pay 
mention to ordinary cleanliness. But now that two or three 
of the young girls and children are ill, perhaps it is a good 
time to have something done.” 

Next morning, when he rose before it was daybreak, there 
was every promise of a fine day. The full moon was setting 
behind the western seas, lighting up the clouds there with a 
dusky yellow ; in the east there was a wilder glare of steely 
blue high up over the intense blackness on the back of Ben- 
an-Sloich ; and the morning was still, for he heard, suddenly 
piercing the silence, the whistle of a curlew, and that became 
more and more remote as the unseen bird winged its flight 
far over the sea. He lit the candles, and made the neces- 
sary preparations for his journey ; for he had some mes- 
sage to leave at Kinloch, at the head of Loch Scridain, and 
he was going to ride round that way. By and by the morn- 
ing light had increased so much that he blew out the candles. 

No sooner had he done this than his eye caught sight of 
something outside that startled him. It seemed as though 
great clouds of golden-white, all ablaze in sunshine, rested 
on the dark bosom of the deep. Instantly he went to the 
window ; and then he saw that these clouds were not clouds 
at all, but the islands around glittering in the “ white wonder 
of the snow,” and catching here and there the shafts of the 
early sunlight that now streamed through the valleys of Mull. 
The sudden marvel of it ! There was Ulva, shining beautiful 
as in a sparkling bridal veil ; and Gometra a paler blue-white 
in the shadow ; and Colonsay and Erisgeiralso a cold white ; 
and Staffa pale gray ; and ; hen the sea that the gleaming 
islands rested on was a mirror of pale-green and rose-purple 
hues reflected from the morning sky. It was all dream-like, 
«o still, and beautiful, and silent. But he now saw that that 
fine morning would not last. Behind the house clouds of a 


MACLEOD OF DA RE. 


243 


suffused yellow began to blot out the sparkling peaks of Ben- 
an-Sloich. The colors of the plain of the sea were troubled 
with gusts of wind until they disappeared altogether. The 
sky in the north grew an ominous black, until the farther 
shores of Loch Tua were dazzling white against that bank of 
angry cloud. But to Bunessan he would go. 

Janet Macleod was not much afraid of the weather at any 
time, but she said to him at breakfast, in a laughing way. 

“And if you are lost in a snowdrift in Glen Finichen, 
Keith, what are we to do for you ? ” 

“ What are you to do for me ? — why, Donald will make a 
fine Lament ; and what more than that ? ” 

“ Cannot you send one of the Camerons with a message, 
Keith ? ” his mother said. 

“ Well, mother/’ said he, “ I think I will go on to Fhion- 
fort and cross over to Iona myself, if Mr. Mackinnon will go 
with me. For it is very bad the cottages are there, I know • 
and if I must write to the duke, it is better that I should have 
made the inquiries myself.” 

And, indeed, when Macleod set out on his stout young pony 
Jack, paying but little heed to the cold driftings of sleet that 
the sharp east wind was sending across, it seemed as though 
he were destined to perform several charitable deeds all on 
che one errand. For, firstly, about a mile from the house, he 
met Duncan the policeman, who was making his weekly round 
in the interests of morality and law and order, and who had 
to have his book signed by the heritor of Castle Dare as sure 
witness that his peregrinations had extended so far. And 
Duncan was not at all sorry to be saved that trudge of a mile 
in the face of those bitter blasts of sleet ; and he was greatly 
obliged to Sir Keith Macleod for stopping his pony, and get- 
ting out his pencil with his benumbed fingers, and putting 
his initials to the sheet. And then, again, when he had got 
into Glen Finichen, he was talking to the pony and saying, — 
“ Well, Jack, I don’t wonder you want to stop, for the way 
this sleet gets down one’s throat is rather choking. Or are 
you afraid of the sheep loosening the rocks away up there, 
and sending two or three hundred-weight on our head ? ” 
Then he happened to look up the steep sides of the great 
ravine, and there, quite brown against the snow, he saw a 
sheep that had toppled over some rock, and was now lying 
with her legs in the air. He jumped off his pony, and left 
Jack standing in the middle of the road. It was a stiff climb 
up that steep precipice, with the loose stones slippery with 


244 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


the sleet ancl snow; but at last he got a good grip of the 
sheep by the back of her neck, and hauled her out of the hole 
into which she had fallen, and put her, somewhat dazed but 
apparently unhurt, on her legs again. Then he half slid ard 
half ran down the slope again, and got into the saddle. 

But what was this now ? The sky in the east had grc wn 
quite black ; and suddenly this blackness began to fall as it 
torn down by invisible hands. It came nearer and nearer, 
until it resembled the dishevelled hair of a woman. And then 
there was a rattle and roar of wind and snow and hail com- 
bined ; so that the pony was nearly thrown from its feet, and 
Macleod was so blinded that at first he knew not what to do. 
Then he saw some rocks ahead, and he urged the bewildered 
and staggering beast forward through the darkness of the 
storm. Night seemed to have returned. There was a flash 
of lightning overhead, and a crackle of thunder rolled down 
the valley, heard louder than all the howling of the hurricane 
across the mountain sides. And then, when they had reached 
this place of shelter, Macleod dismounted, and crept as close 
as he could into the lea of the rocks. 

He was startled by a voice ; it was only that of old John 
Macintyre, the postman, who was glad enough to get into 
this place of refuge too. 

“ It’s a bad day for you to be out this day, Sir Keith,” 
said he, in the Gaelic, “ and you have no cause to be out ; 
and why will you not go back to Castle Dare ? ” 

“ Have you any letter for me, John ? ” said he, eagerly. 

Oh yes, there was a letter ; and the old man was aston- 
ished to see how quickly Sir Keith Macleod took that letter, 
and how anxiously he read it, as though the awfulness of 
the storm had no concern for him at all. And what was it 
all about, this wet sheet that he had to hold tight between 
his hands, or the gust that swept round the rocks would have 
whirled it up and away over the giant ramparts of the Bourg ? 
It was a very pretty letter, and rather merry; for it was all 
about a fancy-dress ball which was to take place at Mr. 
Lemuel’s house ; and all the people were to wear a Spanish 
costume of the time of Philip IV. ; and there were to be very 
grand doings indeed. And as Keith Macleod had nothing 
to do in the dull winter-time but devote himself to books, 
would he be so kind as to read up about that period, and ad* 
vise her as to which historical character she ought to assume ? 

Macleod burst out laughing, in a strange sort of way, and 


t 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 


245 

put the wet letter in his pocket, and led Jack out into the 
road again. 

“ Sir Keith, Sir Keith ! ” cried the old man, “ you will 
not go on now ? ” And as he spoke, another blast of snow 
tore across the glen, and there was a rumble of thunder 
among the hills. 

“Why, John,” Macleod called back again from the gray 
gloom of the whirling snow and sleet, “would you have me 
go home and read books too ? Do you know what a fancy 
dress ball is, John ? And do you know what they think ol 
us in the South, John : that we have nothing to do here in 
winter-time — nothing to do here but read books ? ” 

The old man heard him laughing to himself in that odd 
way, as he rode off and disappeared into the driving snow ; 
and his heart was heavy within him, and his mind filled with 
strange forebodings. It was a dark and an awful glen, this 
great ravine that led down to the solitary shores of Loch 
Scridain. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

OVER THE SEAS. 

But no harm at all came of that reckless ride through 
the storm ; and in a day or two’s time Macleod had almost 
argued himself into the belief that it was but natural for a 
young girl to be fascinated by these new friends. And how 
could he protest against a fancy-dress ball, when he himself 
had gone to one on his brief visit to London ? And it was 
a proof of her confidence in him that she wished to take his i 
advice about her costume. 

Then he turned to other matters ; for, as the slow weeks 
went by, one eagerly disposed to look for the signs of the 
coming spring might occasionally detect a new freshness in 
the morning air, or even find a little bit of the whitlow-grass 
in flower among the moss of an old wall. And Major Stuart 
had come over to Dare once or twice ; and had privately 
given Lady Macleod and her niece such enthusiastic ac- 
counts of Miss Gertrude White that the references to her 
forthcoming visit ceased to be formal and became friendly 


*46 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


and matter of course. It was rarely, however, that Keith 
Macleod mentioned her name. He did not seem to wish for 
any confidant. Perhaps her letters were enough. 

But on one occasion Janet Macleod said to him, with a 
shy smile. 

“I think you must be a very patient lover, Keith, to 
spend all the winter here. Another young man would have 
wished to go to London.” 

“ And I would go to London, too ! ” he said suddenly, 
and then he stopped. He was somewhat embarrassed. 
“Well, I will tell you, Janet. I do not wish to see her any 
more as an actress, and she says it is better that I do not 
go to London ; and — and, you know, she will soon cease to 
be an actress.” 

“But why not now,” said Janet Macleod, with some 
wonder, “ if she has such a great dislike for it ? ” 

“ That I do not know,” said he, somewhat gloomily. 

But he wrote to Gertrude White, and pressed the point 
once more, with great respect, it is true, but still with an 
earnestness of pleading that showed how near the matter lay 
to his heart. It was a letter that would have touched most 
women ; and even Miss Gertrude White was pleased to see 
how anxiously interested he was in her. 

“ But you know, my dear Keith,” she wrote back, “ when 
people are going to take a great plunge into the sea, they 
are warned to wet their head first. And don’t you think I 
should accustom myself to the change you have in store for 
me by degrees ? In any case, my leaving the stage at the 
present moment could make no difference to us — you in the 
Highlands, I in London. And do you know, sir, that your 
request is particularly ill-timed; for, as it happens, I am 
about to enter into a new dramatic project of which I should 
probably never have heard but for you. Does that astonish 
you ? Well, here is the story. It appears that you told the 
Duchess of Wexford that I would give her a performance for 
the new training-ship she is getting up ; and, being chal 
ienged, could I break a promise made by you ? And only 
fancy what these clever people have arranged, to flatter their 
own vanity in the name of charity. They have taken St. 
George’s Hall, and the distinguished amateurs have chosen 
the piay ; and the play — don’t laugh, dear Keith— is ‘ Romeo 
and Juliet!’ And I am to play Juliet to the Romeo of the 
Honorable Captain Brierley, who is a very good-looking man, 
but who is so solemn and stiff a Romeo that I know I shall 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


247 


burr t out laughing on the dreaded night. He is as nervous 
now at a morning rehearsal as if it were his debut at Drury 
Lane ; and he never even takes my hand without an air of 
npology, as if he were saying, ‘ Really, Miss White, you must 
pardon me ; .1 am compelled by my part to take your hand ; 
otherwise I would die rather than be guilty of such a liberty. * 
And when he addresses me in the balcony-scene, he will not 
;ook at me ; he makes his protestations of love to the Hies 
and when I make my fine speeches to him, he blushes if his 
eyes should by chance meet mine, just as if he had been 
guilty of some awful indiscretion. I know, dear Keith, you 
don’t like to see me act, but you might come up for this oc- 
casion only. Friar Lawrence is the funniest thing I have 
seen for ages. The nurse, however, Lady Bletherin, is 
not at all bad. I hear there is to be a grand supper after- 
wards somewhere, and I have no doubt I shall be presented 
to a number of ladies who will speak for the first time to an 
actress and be possessed with a wild fear ; only, if they have 
daughters, I suppose they will keep the fluttering-hearted 
young things out of the way, lest I should suddenly break 
out into blue flame, and then disappear through the floor. I 
am quite convinced that Captain Brierley considers me a 
bold person because I look at him when I have to say. 

“ ‘ O gentle Romeo, 

If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully 1 1 n 

Macleod crushed this letter together, and thrust it into 
his pocket. He strode out of the room, and called for Ham- 
ish. 

“ Send Donald down to the quay,” said he, “ and tell them 
to get the boat ready. And he will take down my gun too.” 

Old Hamish, noticing the expression of his master’s eyes, 
went off quickly enough, and soon got hold of Donald, the 
piper-lad 

“ Donald,” said he, in the Gaelic, “ you will run down to 
the quay as fast as your legs can carry you, and you will tell 
them to get the boat ready, and not to lose any time in get- 
ting the boat ready, and to have the seat dry, and let there 
be no talking when Sir Keith gets on board. And here is 
the gun too, and the bag ; and you will tell them to have no 
talking among themselves this day.” 

When Macleod got down to the small stone pier, the two 
men were in the boat. Johnny Wickes was standing at the 
door of the storehouse. 


248 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


“ Would you like to go for a sail, Johnny ? ” Macleod said 
abruptly, but there was no longer that dangerous light in his 
eyes. 

“ Oh yes, sir,” said the boy, eagerly ; for he had long ago 
lost his dread of the sea. 

“ Get in, then, and get up to the bow.” 

So Johnny Wickes went cautiously down the few slippery 
stone steps, half tumbled into the bottom of the great open 
boat, and then scrambled up to the bow. 

“ Where will you be for going, sir ? ” said one of the men 1 
when Macleod had jumped into the stern and taken the 
tiller. 

“ Anywhere — right out ! ” he answered, carelessly. 

But it was all very well to say “ right out ! ” when there 
was a stiff breeze blowing right in. Scarcely had the boat 
put her nose out beyond the pier, and while as yet there was 
but little way on her, when a big sea caught her, springing high 
over her bows and coming rattling down on her with a noise 
as of pistol-shots. The chief victim of this deluge was the 
luckless Johnny Wickes, who tumbled down into the bottom 
of the boat, vehemently blowing the salt-water out of his 
mouth, and rubbing his knuckles into his eyes. Macleod 
burst out laughing. 

“ What’s the good of you as a lookout ? ” he cried. “ Didn’t 
you see the water coming ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Johnny, ruefully laughing, too. But he 
would not be beaten. He scrambled up again to his post, 
and clung there, despite the fierce wind and the clouds of 
spray. 

“ Keep her close up, sir,” said the man who had the sheet 
of the huge lugsail in both his hands, as he cast a glance 
out at the darkening sea. 

But this great boat, rude and rough and dirty as she ap- 
peared, was a splendid specimen of her class ; and they 
know how to build such boats up about that part of the world. 
No matter with how staggering a plunge she went down into 
the yawning green gulf, the white foam hissing away from 
her sides ; before the next wave, high, awful, threatening, 
had come down on her with a crash as of mountains falling, 
she had glided buoyantly upward, and the heavy blow only 
made her bows spring the higher, as though she would shake 
herself free, like a bird, from the wet. But it was a wild day 
to be out. So heavy and black was the sky in the west that 
th« surface of the sea out to the horizon seemed to be a 


249 


MACLEOD OF DA RE. 

moving mass of white foam, with only streaks of green and 
purple in it. The various islands changed every minute as 
the wild clouds whirled past. Already the great cliffs about 
Dare had grown distant and faint as seen through the spray ; 
and here were the rocks of Colonsa)% black as jet as they re- 
appeared through the successive deluges of white foam ; and 
far over there, a still gloomier mass against the gloomy sky 
told where the huge Atlantic breakers were rolling in their 
awful thunder into the Staffa caves. 

“ I would keep her away a bit,” said the sailor next Mac- 
leod. lie did not like the look of the heavy breakers that 
were crashing on to the Colonsay rocks. 

Macleod, with his teeth set hard against the wind, was 
not thinking of the Colonsay rocks more than was necessary 
to give them a respectful berth. 

“ Were you ever in a theatre, Duncan ? ” he said, or rath- 
er bawled, to the browm-visaged and black-haired young fel- 
low who had now got the sheet of the lugsail under his foot 
as well as in the firm grip of his hands. 

“ Oh yes, Sir Keith,” said he, as he shook the salt-water 
away from his short beard. “ It was at Greenock. I will be 
at the theatre, and more than three times or two times.*’ 

“How would you like to have a parcel of actors and act- 
resses with us now? ” he said, with a laugh. 

“ ’ Deed, I would not like it at all,” said Duncan, seri- 
ously ; and he twisted the sheet of the sail twice round his 
right wrist, so that his relieved left hand could convey a bit 
of wet tobacco to his mouth. “ The women they would chump 
apout, and then you do not know what will happen at all.” 

“ A little bit away yet, sir ! ” cried out the other sailor, 
who was looking out to windward, with his head between the 
gunwale and the sail. “ There is a bad rock off the point.” 

“ Why, it is half a mile north of our course as we are 
now going ! ” Macleod said. 

“ Oh yes, half a mile ! ” the man said to himself ; “ but I 
do not like half miles, and half miles, and half miles on a 
day like this ! ” 

And so they went plunging and staggering and bounding 
onward, with the roar of the water all around them, and the 
foam at her bows, as it sprung high into the air, showing 
quite white against the black sky ahead. The younger lad, 
Duncan, was clearly of opinion that his master was run- 
ning too near the shores of Colonsay ; but he would say no 
more, for he knew that Macleod had a better knowledge of 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


» 5 ° 

the currents and rocks of this wild coast than any man on 
the mainland of Mull. John Cameron, forward, kept his 
head dchvn to the gunwale, his eyes looking far over that 
howling waste of sea ; Duncan, his younger brother, had his 
gaze fixed mostly on the brown breadth of the sail, hammered 
at by the gusts of wind ; while as for the boy at the bow. 
that enterprising youth had got a rope’s end, and was en 
tdeavoring to strike at the crest of each huge wave as it came 
ploughing along in its resistless strength. 

But at one moment the boat gave a heavier lurch than * 
usual, and the succeeding wave struck her badly. In the 
great rush of water that then ran by her side, Macleod’s 
startled eye seemed to catch a glimpse of something red — 
something blazing and burning red in the waste of green 
and almost the same glance showed him there was no boy at 
the bow ! Instantly, with just one cry to arrest the attention 
of the men, he had slipped over the side of the boat just as 
an otter slips off. a rock. The two men were bewildered but 
for a second. One sprang to the halyards, and down came 
the great lugsail ; the other got out one of the great oars, 
and the mighty blade of it fell into the bulk of the next wave 
as if he would with one sweep tear her head round. Like 
two mad men the men pulled ; and the wind was with them, 
and the tide also, but, nevertheless, when they caught sight, 
just for a moment, of some object behind them, that was a 
terrible way away. Yet there was no time, they thought, or 
seemed to think, to hoist the sail again, and the small dingy 
attached to the boat would have been swamped in a second ; 
and so there was nothing for it but the deadly struggle with 
those immense blades against the heavy resisting mass of 
the boat. John Cameron looked round again ; then, with an 
oath, he pulled his oar across the boat. 

“ Up with the sail, lad ! ” he shouted ; and again he sprang 
to the halyards. 

The seconds, few as they were, that were necessary to 
this operation seemed ages ; but no sooner had the wind got 
a purchase on the breadth of the sail, than the boat flew 
through the water, for she was now running free. 

“ He has got him ! I can see the two ! ” shouted the 
elder Cameron. 

And as for the younger ? At this mad speed the boat 
would be close to Macleod in another second or two ; but in 
thst brief space of time the younger Cameron had flung hif 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


2 5 * 

clothes off, and stood there stark-naked in the cutting March 
wind. 

“ That is foolishness ! ” his brother cried in the Gaelic, 
“ You will have to take an oar ! ” 

“I will not take an oar!” the other cried, with both 
hands ready to let go the halyards. “ And if it is foolishness, 
(his is the foolishness of it : I will not let you or any man say 
that Sir Keith Macleod was in the water, and Duncan Cam- 
eron went home with a dry skin ! ” 

And Duncan Cameron was as good as his word ; for as 
the boat went plunging forward to the neighborhood in which 
they occasionally saw the head of Macleod appear on the side 
of a wave and then disappear again as soon as the wave 
broke, and as soon as the lugsail had been rattled down, he 
sprung clear from the side of the boat. For a second or two, 
John Cameron, left by himself in the boat, could not see any 
one of the three ; but at last he saw the black head of his 
brother, and then some few yards beyond, just as a wave 
happened to roll by, he saw his master and the boy. The 
boat had almost enough way on her to carry her the length ; 
he had but to pull at the huge oar to bring her head round a 
bit. And he pulled, madly and blindly, until he was startled 
by a cry close by. He sprang to the side of the boat. There 
was his brother drifting by, holding the boy with one arm. 
John Cameron rushed to the stern to fling a rope, but Dun- 
can Cameron had been drifting by with a purpose ; for as 
soon as he got clear of the bigger boat, he struck for the rope 
of the dingy, and got hold of that, and was safe. And here 
was the master, too, clinging to the side of the dingy so as to 
recover his breath, but not attempting to board the cockle- 
shell in these plunging waters. There were tears running 
down John Cameron’s rugged face as he drew the three up 
and over the side of the big boat. 

“ And if you wass drowned, Sir Keith, it wass not me 
would have carried the story to Castle Dare. I would just 
as soon have been drowned too.” 

“ Have you any whiskey, John ? ” Macleod said, pushing 
the hair out of his eyes, and trying to get his mustache out 
of his mouth. 

In ordinary circumstances John Cameron would have told 
a lie but on this occasion he hurriedly bade the still un- 
dressed Duncan to take the tiller, and he went forward to a 
locker at the bows, which was usually kept for bait, and from 
thence he got a black bottle which was half full. ^ . 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


252 

“ Now, Johnny Wickes,” Macleod said to the boy, who 
was quite blinded and bewildered, but otherwise apparently 
not much the worse, “ swallow a mouthful of this, you young 
rascal ; and if I catch you imitating a dolphin again, it is a 
rope’s end you’ll have, and not good Highland whiskey.” 

Johnny Wickes did not understand ; but he swallowed 
the whiskey, and then he began to look about him a bit. 

“ Will I put my clothes round him, Sir Keith ? ” Duncac 
Cameron said. 

“ And go home that way to Dare ? ” Macleod said, with a 
loud laugh. “ Get on your clothes, Duncan, lad, and get up 
the sail again ; and we will see if there is a dram left for us 
in the bottle. John Cameron, confound you ! where are you 
putting her head to ? ” 

John Cameron, who had again taken the tiller, seemed as 
one demented. He was talking to himself rapidly in Gaelic, 
and his brows were frowning ; and he did not seem to notice 
that he was putting the head of the boat, which had now 
some little way on her by reason of the wind and tide, though 
she had no sail up, a good deal too near the southernmost 
point of Colonsay. 

Roused from this angry reverie, he shifted her course a 
bit ; and then, when his brother had got his clothes on, he 
helped to hoist the sail, and again they flew onward and 
shoreward, along with the waves that seemed to be racing 
them ; but all the same he kept grumbling and growling to 
himself in Gaelic. Meanwhile Macleod had got a huge tar- 
paulin overcoat and wrapped Johnny Wickes in it, and put 
him in the bottom of the boat. 

“ You will soon be warm enough in that, Master Wickes,” 
said he ; “ the chances are you will come out boiled red, like 
a lobster. And I would strongly advise you, if we can slip 
into the house and get dry clothes on, not to say a word of 
your escapade to Hamteh.” 

“ Ay, Sir Keith,” said John Cameron, eagerly, in his na- 
tive tongue, “ that is what I will be saying to myself. If the 
story is told — and Hamish will hear that you will nearly 
drown yourself — what is it he will not do to that boy ? It is 
for killing him he will be.” 

“ Not as bad as that, John,” Macleod said, good-naturedly. 

“ Come, there is a glass for each of us ; and you may give 
me the tiller now.” 

# “ I will take no whiskey, Sir Keith, with thanks to you, 1 
said John Cameron; “ I was not in the water.” 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


*53 


"There is plenty for all, man ! ” 

“ I was not in the water.” 

“ I tell you there is plenty for all of us ! 

“ There is the more for you, Sir Keith,” said ht, stub 
bornly. 

And then, as great good luck would have it, it was found, 
when they got ashore, that Hamish had gone away as far as 
Salen on business of some sort or other ; and the story' told 
by the two Camerons was that Johnny Wickes, whose clothes 
were sent into the kitchen to be dried, and who was himself 
put to bed, had fallen into the water down by the quay ; and 
nothing at all was said about Keith Macleod having had to 
leap into the sea off the coast of Colonsay. Macleod got 
into Castle Dare by a back way, and changed his clothes in 
his own room. Then he went away upstairs to the small 
chamber in which Johnny Wickes lay in bed. 

“You have had the soup, then? You look pretty com- 
fortable.” 

“Yes, sir,” said the boy, whose face was now flushed red 
with the reaction after the cold. “ I beg your pardon, sir.” 

“ For tumbling into the water? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Well, look here, Master Wickes : you chose a good time. 
If I had had trousers on, and waterproof leggings over them, 
do you know where you would be at the present moment ? 
You would be having an interesting conversation with a 
number of lobsters at the bottom of the sea off the Colon- 
say shores. And so you thought because I had my kilt on, 
that I could fish you out of the water ? ” 

“ No, sir,” said Johnny Wickes. “ I beg your pardon, 
sir.” 

“ Well, you wall remember that it was owing to the High- 
land kilt that you were picked out of the water, and that it 
was Highland whiskey put life into your blood again ; you 
will remember that well. And if any strange lady should 
come here from England and ask you how you like the High- 
lands, you will not forget ? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ And you can have Oscar up here in the room with you, 
if you like, until they let you out of bed again ; or you can 
have Donald to play the pipes to you until dinner-time.” 

Master Wickes chose the less heroic remedy ; but, in- 
deed, the companionship of Oscar was not needed ; for Janet 
Macleod — who might just as well have tried to keep her heart 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


254 

from beating as to keep herself away from any one who was 
ill or supposed to be ill — herself came up to this little room, 
and was very attentive to Master Wickes, not because he 
was suffering very much from the effects of his ducking, but 
because he was a child, and alone, and a stranger. And to 
her Johnny Wickes told the whole story, despite the warn 
ings he had received that, if Hamish came to learn of the 
peril in which Macleod had been placed by the incaution ol 
the English lad, the latter would have had a bad time of it at 
Castle Dare. Then Janet hastened away again, and, finding 
her cousin’s bedroom empty, entered ; and there discovered 
that he had, with customary recklessness, hung up his wet 
clothes in his wardrobe. She had them at once conveyed 
away to the lower regions, and she Avent, with earnest remon- 
strances, to her cousin, and would have him drink some hot 
whiskey and water; and when Hamish arrived, went straight 
to him too, and told him the story in such a way that he 
said, — 

“Ay, ay, it wass the poor little lad 1 And he will mek a 
good sailor yet. And it was not much dancher for him when 
Sir Keith wass in the boat ; for there is no one in the whole 
of the islands will sw r eem in the water as he can sweem ; and 
it is like a fish in the water that he is.” 

That was about the only incident of note, and little was 
made of it, that disturbed the monotony of life at Castle Dare 
at this time. But by and by, as the days passed, and as eager 
eyes looked abroad, signs showed that the beautiful summer- 
time was drawing near. The deep blue came into the skies 
and the seas again ; the yellow mornings broke earlier. Far 
into the evening they could still make out the Dutchman’s 
Cap, and Lunga, and the low-lying Coll and Tiree, amidst the 
glow at the horizon after the blood-red sunset had gone dowm. 
The white stars of the saxifrage appeared in the woods ; the 
white daisies were in the grass. As you walked along the 
lower slopes of Ben-an-Sloich, the grouse that rose were in 
pairs. What a fresh green this was that shimmered over the 
young larches ! He sent her a basket of the first trout he 
caught in the loch. 

The wonderful glad time came nearer and nearer. And 
every clear and beautiful day that shone over the white sands 
of Iona and the green shores of Ulva, with the blue seas all 
breaking joyfully along the rocks, was but a day thrown away 
that should have been reserved for her. And whether she 
came by the Dunara from Greenock, or by the Pioneer from 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


2 55 


Oban, would they hang the vessel in white roses in her honor, 
and have velvet carpetings on the gangways for the dainty 
small feet to tread on ? and would the bountiful heavens grant 
Out one shining blue day for her first glimpse of the far and 
lonely Castle Dare ? J anet, the kind-hearted, was busy from 
morning till night ; she herself would place the scant flowers 
that could be got in the guests’ rooms. The steward of the 
Pioneer had undertaken to bring any number of things from 
Oban ; Donald, the piper-lad, had a brand-new suit of tartan, 
and was determined that, short of the very cracking of his 
lungs, the English lady would have a good salute played for 
her that day. The Umpire , all smartened up now, had been 
put in a safe anchorage in Loch-na-Keal ; the men wore their 
new jerseys , the long gig, painted white, with a band of gold, 
was brought along to Dare, so that it might, if the weather 
were favorable, go out to bring the Fair Stranger to her High- 
land home. And then the heart of her lover cried, “ O winds 
and seas , if only for one day , be gentle now / so that her first 
thoughts of us shail be all of peace and loveliness , and of a glad 
welcome , and the delight of clear summer days ! ” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

HAMISH. 

Aio> now — look ! The sky is as blue as the heart of a 
sapphire, and the sea would be as blue too, only for the glad 
white of the rippling waves. And the wind is as soft as the 
winnowing of a sea-gull’s wing ; and green, green, are the 
laughing shores of Ulva. The bride is coming.’ All around 
the coast the people are on the alert — Donald in his new 
finery ; Hamish half frantic with excitement ; the crew of the 
Umpire down at the quay; and the scarlet flag fluttering from 
the top of the white pole. And behold ! — as the cry goes 
along that the steamer is in sight, what is this strange thing ? 
She comes clear out from the Sound of Iona ; but who has 
ever seen before that long line running from her stem to her 
top-mast and down again to her stern ? 

“Oh, Keith!” Janet Macleod cried, with sudden tears 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


256 

starting to her eyes, " do you know what Captain Macalluni 
has done for you ? The steamer has got all her flags out ! ” 

Macleod flushed red. 

“Well, Janet,” said he, “ I wrote to Captain Macullum. 
and I asked him to be so good as to pay them some little at- 
tention ; but who was to know that he would do that ? ” 

“And a very proper thing, too,” said Major Stuart, who 
was standing hard by. “ A very pretty compliment to stran 
gers ; and you know you have not many visitors coming to 
Castle Dare.” 

The major spoke in a matter of fact way. Why should 
not the steamer show her bunting in honor of Macleod’s 
guests ! But all the same the gallant soldier, as he stood 
and watched the steamer coming along, became a little bit 
excited too ; and he whistled to himself, and tapped his toe 
on the ground. It was a fine air he was whistling. It was 
all about breast-knots ! 

“ Into the boat with you now, lads ! ” Macleod called out ; 
and first of all to go down to the steps was Donald ; and the 
silver and cairngorms on his pipes were burnished so that 
they shone like diamonds in the sunlight; and he wore his 
cap so far on one side that nobody could understand how it 
did not fall off. Macleod was alone in the stern. Away the 
white boat went through the blue waves. 

“ Put your strength into it now,” said he, in the Gaelic, 
“ and show them how the Mull lads can row !” 

And then again — 

“ Steady now ! Well rowed all ! ” 

And here are all the people crowding to one side of the 
steamer to see the strangers off ; and the captain is on the 
bridge ; and Sandy is at the open gangway : and, at the top 
of the iron steps, there is only one Macleod sees — all in 
white and blue — and he has caught her eyes — at last ! at 
last ! 

He seized the rope and sprang up the iron ladder. 

“ Welcome to you, sweetheart ! ” said he, in a low voice, 
and his trembling hand grasped hers. 

“ How do you, Keith?” said she. “Must we go down 
these steps ? ” 

He had no time to wonder over the coldness — the petu- 
lance almost — of her manner : for he had to get both father 
and daughter safely conducted into the stern of the boat ; 
and their luggage had to be got in ; and he had to say a 
word or two to the steward ; and finally he had to hand down 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


some loaves of bread to the man next him, who placed them 
in the bottom of the boat. 

“ The commissariat arrangements are primitive,” said Mr. 
White, in an undertone, to his daughter ; but she made no 
answer to his words or his smile. But, indeed, even if Mac* 
leod had overheard, he would have taken no shame to him- 
self that he had secured a supply of white bread for his 
guests. Those who had gone yachting with Macleod — Major 
Stuart for example, or Norman Ogilvie — had soon learned 
not to despise their host’s highly practical acquaintance with 
tinned meats, pickles, condensed milk, and suchlike things. 
Who was it had proposed to erect a monument to him for his 
discovery of the effect of introducing a leaf of lettuce 
steeped in vinegar between the folds of a sandwich ? 

Then he jumped down into the boat again ; and the great 
steamer steamed away ; and the men struck their oars into 
the water. 

“ We will soon take you ashore now,” said he, with a glad 
light on his face ; but so excited was he that he could scarcely 
get the tiller-ropes right ; and certainly he knew not what he 
was saying. And as for her — why was she so silent after the 
long separation ? Had she no word at all for the lover who 
had so hungered for her coming ? 

And then Donald, perched high at the bow, broke away 
into his wild welcome of her; and there was a sound now 
louder than the calling of the sea-birds and the rushing of 
the seas. And if the English lady knew that this proud and 
shrill strain had been composed in honor of her, would it not 
bring some color of pleasure to the pale face ? So thought 
Donald at least ; and he had his eyes fixed on her as he 
played as he had never played before that day. And if she 
did not know the cunning modulations and the clever finger- 
ing, Macleod knew them, and the men knew them ; and after 
the) got ashore they would say to him, — 

“ Donald, that was a good pibroch you played for the 
English lady.’ 

But what was the English lady’s thanks ? Donald had 
not played over sixty seconds when she turned to Macleod 
and said, — 

“ Keith 1 wish you would stop him. I have a headache.” 

And so Macleod called out at once, in the lad’s native 
tongue. But Donald could not believe this thing, though he 
had seen the strange lady turn to Sir Keith. And he would 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


*58 

have continued had not one of the men turned to him and 
said, — 

“ Donald, do you not hear ? Put down the pipes.” 

For an instant the lad looked dumbfounded ; then he slowly 
took down the pipes from his shoulder and, put them beside 
him, and then he turned his face to the bow, so that no one 
should see the tears of wounded pride that had sprung to his 
eyes. And Donald said no word to any one till they got 
ashore ; and he went away by himself to Castle Dare, with 
his head bent down and his pipes under his arm ; and when 
he was met at the door by Hamish, who angrily demanded 
why he was not down at the quay with his pipes, he only 
said,— 

“ There is no need of me or my pipes any more at Dare ; 
and it is somewhere else that I will now go with my pipes.” 

But meanwhile Macleod was greatly concerned to find 
his sweetheart so cold and distant ; and it was all in vain that 
he pointed out to her the beauties of this summer day — that 
he showed her the various islands he had often talked about, 
and called her attention to the skarts sitting on the Erisgeii 
rocks, and asked her — seeing that she sometimes painted a 
little in water-color — whether she noticed the peculiar, clear, 
intense, and luminous blue of the shadows in the great cliffs 
which they were approaching. Surely no day could have been 
more auspicious for her coming to Dare ? 

“ The sea did not make you ill ? ” he said. 

“ Oh no,” she answered ; and that was true enough, 
though it had produced in her agonizing fears of becoming 
ill which had somewhat ruffled her temper. And besides, she 
had a headache. And then she had a nervous fear of small 
boats. 

“ It is a very small boat to be out in the open sea,” she 
remarked, looking at the long and shapely gig that was cleav- 
ing the summer waves. 

“Not on a day like this, surely,” said he, laughing. “ But 
we will make a good sailor of you before you leave Dare, and 
you will think yourself safer in a boat like this than in a big 
steamer. Do you know that the steamer you came in, big as 
it is, draws only five feet of water ? ” 

If he had told her that the steamer drew five tons of coal 
she could just as well have understood him. Indeed, she was 
not paying much attention to him. Site had an eye for the 
biggest of the waves that were running by the side of the 
white boat. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


2 59 

But she plucked up her spirits somewhat on getting 
ashore ; and she made the prettiest of little courtesies to Lady 
Macleod ; and she shook hands with Major Stuart, and gave 
him a charming smile ; and she shook hands with Janet, too, 
whom she regarded with a quick scrutiny. So this was the 
cousin tha 4 ^ Keith Macleod was continually praising ? 

“ Miss White has a headache, mother,” Macleod said 
eager to account beforehand for any possible constraint inhet 
manner. “ Shall we send for the pony ? ” 

“ Oh no,” Miss White said, looking up at the bare walls 
of Dare. “ I shall be very glad to have a short walk now — 
unless you, papa, would like to ride ? ” 

“ Certainly not — certainly not,” said Mr. White, who had 
been making a series of formal remarks to Lady Macleod 
about his impressions of the scenery of Scotland. 

“ We will get you a cup of tea,” said Janet Macleod, 
gently, to the new-comer, “ and you will lie down for a little 
time, and I hope the sound of the waterfall will not disturb 
you. It is a long way you have come : and you will be very 
tired, I am sure.” 

“ Yes, it is a pretty long way,” she said ; but she wished 
this over-friendly woman would not treat her as if she were a 
spoiled child. And no doubt they thought, because she was 
English, she could not walk up to the farther end of that fir- 
wood ? 

So they all set out for Castle Dare ; and Macleod was 
now walking — as many a time he had dreamed of his walking — 
with his beautiful sweetheart ; and there were the very ferns 
that he thought she would admire ; and here the very point 
in the firwood where he would stop her and ask her to look 
out on the blue sea, with Inch Kenneth, and Ulva, and Staffa, 
all lying in the sunlight, and the razor-fish of land — Coll and 
Tiree — at the horizon But instead of being proud and glad, 
he was almost afraid. He was so anxious that everything 
should please her that he dared scarce bid her look at any- 
thing. He had himself superintended the mending of the 
steep path ; but even now the recent rains had left some pud 
dies. Would she not consider the moist, warm odors of this 
larch-wood as too oppressive ? 

“ What is that ? ” she said, suddenly. 

There was a sound far below them of the striking of oar* 
in the water, and another sound of one or two men monoi > 
nously chant-ng a rude sort of chorus. 

“ They are taking the gig on to the yacht,” he said. , 


260 


MACLEOD Or DARE. 

“ But what arz they singing ? ” 

“Oh, that is Fhir a bhata ,” said he ; “ it is the common 
boat-song. It means, Good-by to you , boatman, a hundred 
times, wherever you may be going.” 

“ It is Very striking, very effective, to hear singing and 
not see the people,” she saii “ It is the very prettiest intro 
duction to a scene ; I wonder it is not oftener used. Do you 
think they could write me down the words and music of that 
song ? ” 

“ Oh no, I think not,” said he, with a nervous laugh. “ But 
you will find something like it, no doubt, in your book.” 

So they passed on through the plantation ; and at last 
they came to an open glade ; and here was a deep chasm 
spanned by a curious old bridge of stone almost hidden by 
ivy ; and there was a brawling stream dashing down over 
the rocks and flinging spray all over the briers, and queen of 
the meadow, and foxgloves on either bank. 

“ That is very pretty,” said she ; and then he was eager 
to tell her that this little glen was even more beautiful when 
the rowan-trees showed their rich clusters of scarlet berries. 

“ Those bushes there, you mean,” said she. “ The moun 
tain-ash ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Ah,” she said, “ I never see those scarlet berries with 
out wishing I was a dark woman. If my hair were black, 1 
would wear nothing else in it.” 

By this time they had climbed well up the cliff ; and pres- 
ently they came on the open plateau on which stood Castle 
Dare, with its gaunt walls and its rambling courtyards, and 
its stretch of damp lawn with a few fuchsia-bushes and 
orange-lilies, that did not give a very ornamental look to 
the place. 

“We have had heavy rains of late,” he said, hastily; he 
hoped the house and its surroundings did not look too dismal. 

And when they went inside and passed through the som- 
bre dining-hall, with its huge fireplace, and its dark weapons, 
and its few portraits dimly visible in the dusk, he said, — 

“ It is very gloomy in the daytime ; but it is more cheer- 
ful at night.” 

And when they reached the small drawing-zoom he was 
anxious to draw her attention away from the antiquated 
furniture and the nondescript decoration be taking her to 
the window and show'ng her the great breadth of the sum- 
mer sea, with the far islands, and the brown-sailed boat of 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


261 


the Gometra men coming back from Staffa. But presently 
in came Janet, and would take the fair stranger away to her 
room ; and was as attentive to her as if the one were a great 
princess, and the other a meek serving-woman. And by and 
by Macleod, having seen his other guest provided for, went 
into the library and shut himself in, and sat down, in a sort 
of stupor. He could almost have imagined that (he whole 
business of the morning was a dream ; so strange did it 
seem to him that Gertrude White should be living and 
breathing under the same roof with himself. 

Nature herself seemed to have conspired with Macleod 
to welcome and charm this fair guest. He had often spoken 
to her of the sunsets that shone over the Western seas ; and 
he had wondered whether, during her stay in the North, she 
would see some strange sight that would remain forever a 
blaze of color in her memory. And now on this very first 
evening there was a spectacle seen from the high windows of 
Dare that filled her with astonishment, and caused her to 
send quickly for her father, who was burrowing among the 
old armor. The sun had just gone down. The western 
sky was of the color of a soda-water bottle become glorified ; 
and in this vast breadth of shining clear green lay one long 
island of cloud — a pure scarlet. Then the sky overhead 
and the sea far below them were both of a soft roseate pur- 
ple ; and Fladda and Staffa and Lunga, out at the horizon, 
were almost black against that flood of green light. When 
he asked her if she had brought her water-colors with her, 
smiled. She was not likely to attempt to put anything like 
that down on paper. 

Then they adjourned to the big hall, which was now lit 
up with candles ; and Major Stuart had remained to dinner : 
and the gallant soldier, glad to have a merry evening away 
from his sighing wife, did his best to promote the cheerful- 
ness of the party. Moreover, Miss White had got rid of her 
headache, and showed a greater brightness of fac e ; so that 
both the old lady at the head of the table and her niece 
Janet had to confess to themselves that this English girl who 
was like to tear Keith Macleod away from them was very 
pretty, and had an amiable look, and was soft and fine and 
delicate in her manners and speech. The charming simpli- 
city of her costume, too : had anybody ever seen a dress 
more beautiful with less pretence of attracting notice ? Her 
very hands — they seemed objects fitted to be placed on a 
cushion of blue velvet under a glass shade, so white and 


262 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


small and perfectly formed were they. That was what the 
kindly-hearted J anet thought. She did not ask herself how 
these hands would answer if called upon to help — amidst 
the grime and smoke of a shepherd’s hut — the shepherd’s 
wife to patch together a pair of homespun trousers for the 
sailor son coming back from the sea. 

“ And now,” said Keith Macleod to his fair neighbor, 
when Hamish had put the claret and the whiskey on the 
table, “ since your head is well now, would you like to hear 
the pipes ? It is an old custom of the house. My mothei 
would think it strange to have it omitted,” he added, in a 
lower voice. 

“ Oh, if it is a custom of the house,” she said, coldly — 
for she thought it was inconsiderate of him to risk bringing 
back her headache — “ I have no objection whatever.” 

And so he turned to Hamish and said something in the 
Gaelic. Hamish replied in English, and loud enough for 
Miss White to hear. 

“ It is no pibroch there will be this night, for Donald is 
away.” 

“ Away ? ” 

“ Ay, just that. When he wass come back from the boat, 
he will say to me, ‘ Hamish, it is no more of me or my pipes 
they want at Dare, and I am going away ; and they can get 
some one else to play the pipes.’ And I wass saying to him 
then, ‘ Donald, do not be a foolish lad ; and if the English 
lady will not want the pibroch you made for her, perhaps at 
another time she will want it.’ And now, Sir Keith, it is 
Maggie MacFarlane ; she wass coming up from Loch-na-Keal 
tliis afternoon, and who was it she will meet but our Donald, 
aud he wass saying to her, ‘It is to Tobermory now that I 
am going, Maggie ; and I will try to get a ship there ; for it 
is no more of me or my pipes they will want at Dare.’ ” 

This was Hamish’s story ; and the keen hawk-like eye of 
him was fixed on the English lady’s face all the time he 
spoke in his struggling and halting fashion. 

“Confound the young rascal!” Macleod said, with his 
face grown red. “ I suppose I shall have to send a messen- 
ger to Tobermory and apologize to him for interrupting him 
to-day.” And then he turned to Miss White. “ They are 
like a set of children,” he said, “ w : th their pride and petu- 
lance.” 

This is all that needs be said about the manner of Miss 
White’s coming to Dare, besides these two circumstances t 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


263 

First of all, whether it was that Macleod was too flurried, and 
Janet too busy, and Lady Macleod too indifferent to attend 
to such trifles, the fact remains that no one, on Miss White’s 
entering the house, had thought of presenting her with a 
piece of white heather, which, as every one knows, gives 
good health and good fortune and a long life to your friend. 
Again, Hamish seemed to have acquired a serious prejudice 
against her from the very outset. That night, when Castle 
Dare was asleep, and the old dame Christina and her hus- 
band were seated by themselves in the servants’ room, and 
Hamish was having his last pipe, and both were talking over 
the great events of the day, Christina s#iid, in her native 
tongue, 

“ And what do you think now of the English lady, Ham- 
ish ? ” 

Hamish answered with an old and sinister saying : 

“ A fool would he be that would burn his harp to warm 
herf 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE GRAVE OF MACLEOD OF MACLEOD. 

The monotonous sound of the waterfall, so far from dis- 
turbing the new guest of Castle Dare, only soothed her to 
rest ; and after the various fatigues, if not the emotions, of 
the day, she slept well. But in the very midst of the night 
she was startled by some loud commotion that seemed to 
prevail both within and without the house ; and when she 
was fully awakened it appeared to her that the whole earth 
was being shaken to pieces in the storm. The wind howled 
in the chimneys ; the rain dashed on the window-panes with 
a rattle as of musketry , far below she could hear the awful 
booming of the Atlantic breakers. The gusts that drove 
against the high house seemed ready to tear it from its foot- 
hold of rock and whirl it inland ; or was it the sea itself that 
was rising in its thunderous power to sweep away this bauble 
from the face of the mighty cliffs ? And then the wild and 
desolate morning that followed ! Through the bewilder- 
ment of the running water on the panes she looked abroad 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


264 

on the tempest-riven sea — a slate-colored waste of hurrying 
waves with wind-swept streaks of foam on them — and on 
the lowering and ever-changing clouds. The fuchsia-bushes 
on the lawn tossed and bent before the wind ; the few 
orange-lilies, wet as they were, burned like fire in this world 
of cold greens and grays. And then, as she stood and gazed, 
she made out the only sign of life that was visible. There wai 
a cornfield below the larch-plantation ; and though the corn 
was all laid fiat by the wet and the wind, a cow and her call 
that had strayed into the field seemed to have no difficulty in 
finding a rich, moist breakfast. Then a small girl appeared 
vainly trying with one hand to keep her kerchief on her head, 
while with the other she threw stones at the marauders. By 
and by even these disappeared ; and there was nothing visible 
outside but that hurrying and desolate sea, and the wet, be- 
draggled, comfortless shore. She turned away with a shud- 
der. 

All that day Keith Macleod was in despair. As for him- 
self, he would have had sufficient joy in the mere conscious- 
ness of the presence of this beautiful creature. His eyes 
followed her with a constant delight ; whether she took up a 
book, or examined the cunning spring of a sixteenth-century 
dagger, or turned to the dripping panes. He would have 
been content even to sit and listen to Mr. White sententiously 
lecturing Lady Macleod about the Renaissance, knowing that 
from time to time those beautiful, tender eyes would meet 
his. But what would she think of it ? Would she consider 
this the normal condition of life in the Highlands — this being 
boxed up in an old-fashioned room, with doors and windows 
firmly closed against the wind and the wet, with a number of 
people trying to keep up some sort of social intercourse, and 
not very well succeeding ? She had looked at the portraits 
in the dining-hall — looming darkly from their black back- 
grounds, though two or three were in resplendent uniforms; 
she had examined all the trophies of the chase — skins, horns, 
and what not — in the outer corridor ; she had opened the 
piano, and almost started back from the discords produced 
by the feebly jangling old keys. 

“ You do not cultivate music much,” she had said to Janet 
Macleod, with a smile. 

.“No,” answered Janet, seriousty. “We have little use 
for music here — except to sing to a child now and again, and 
you know you do not want a piano for that.” 

And then the return to the cold window, with the oonstan! 


MACS ROD OF DARK. 


265 

tain and the beating of tiie white surge on the black 
rocks. The imprisonment became torture — became mad- 
dening. What if he were suddenly to murder this old man 
and stop forever his insufferable prosing about Bernada 
Siena and Andrea Mantegna? It seemed so strange to 
hear him talk of the unearthly calm of Raphael's “ St. 
Michael ” — of the beautiful, still landscape of it, ar d the 
mysterious joy on the face of the angel — and to listen at the 
same moment to the wild roar of the Atlantic around the 
rocks of Mull. If Macleod had been alone with the talker, 
he might have gone to sleep. It was like the tolling of a bell. 
“ The artist passes away, but he leaves his soul behind. . . . 
We can judge by his work of the joy he must have expe- 
rienced in creation, of the splendid dreams that have visited 
him, of the triumph of completion. . . . Life without an object 
— a pursuit demanding the sacrifice of our constant care — 
what is it ? The existence of a pig is nobler — a pig is of 
some use. . . . We are independent of weather in a great city ; 
we do not need to care for the seasons ; you take a hansom 
and drive to the National Gallery, and there all at once you 
find yourself in the soft Italian climate, with the most beau- 
tiful women and great heroes of chivalry all around you, and 
with those quaint and loving presentations of sacred stories 
that tell of a time when art was proud to be the meek hand- 
maid of religion. Oh, my dear Lady Macleod, there is a 
* Holy Family * of Giotto’s ” 

So it went on ; and Macleod grew sick at heart to think 
of the impression that this funereal day must have had on the 
mind of his fair stranger. But as they sat at dinner that even- 
ing, Hamish came in and said a few words to his master. 
Instantly Macleod’s face lighted up, and quite a new anima- 
tion came into his manner. 

“ Do you know what Hamish says ? ” he cried — “ that 
the night is quite fine ? And Hamish has heard oui talking 
of seeing the cathedral at Iona by moonlight, and he says the 
moon will be up by ten. And what do you say tc running 
over now? You know we cannot take you in the yacht, for 
there is no good anchorage at Iona; but we can take you in 
a very good and safe boat ; and it will be an adventure to go 
out in the night-time.” 

It was an adventure that neither Mr. White nor his 
daughter seemed too eager to undertake ; but the urgent ve- 
hemence of the young man — who had discovered that it was 
A fine and clear starlit night — soon overcame their doubts 


266 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


ancl there was a general hurry of preparation. The desola 
tion of the day, he eagerly thought, would be forgotten in the 
romance of this night excursion. And surely she would be 
charmed by the beauty of the starlit sky, and die loneliness 
of the voyage, and their wandering over the ruins in the 
solemn moonlight ? 

Thick boots and waterproofs — these were his peremptory 
instructions. And then he led the way down the slipper) 
path, and he had a tight hold of her arm ; and if he talked 
to her in a low voice so that none should overhear, it is the 
way of lovers under the silence of the stars. They reached 
the pier, and the wet stone steps ; and here, despite the stars, 
it was so dark that perforce she had to permit him to lift her 
off the lowest step and place her in security in what seemed 
to her a great hole of some kind or other. She knew, how- 
ever, that she was in a boat, for there was a swaying hither 
and thither even in this sheltered corner. She saw other 
figures arrive — black between her and the sky — ana she 
heard her father’s voice above. Then he, too, got into the 
boat ; the two men forward hauled up the huge lugsail ; and 
presently there was a rippling line of sparkling white stars 
on each side of the boat, burning for a second or two on the 
surface of the black water. 

“ I don’t know who is responsible for this madness,” Mr. 
White said — and the voice from inside the great waterproof 
coat sounded as if it meant to be jocular — “ but really, Gerty, 
to be on the open Atlantic in the middle of the night, in an 
open boat — ” 

“ My dear sir,” Macleod said, laughing, “ you are as safe 
as if you were in bed. But I am responsible in the mean- 
time, for I have the tiller. Oh, we shall be over in plenty of 
time to be clear of the banks.” 

“ What did you say ? ” 

“Weil,” Macleod admitted, “there are some banks, you 
know, in the Sound of Iona ; and on a dark night they are 
a little awkward when the tide is k> w ; but I am not going to 
frighten you — ” 

“ I hope we shall have nothing much worse than this/ 
said Mr. White, seriously. 

For, indeed, the sea, after the squally morning, was run- 
ning pretty high ; and occasionally a cloud of spray came 
rattling over the bo vs, causing Made- id’s guests to pull their 
waterproofs still more tightly round their n ecks. But what 
mattered the creaking of the cordage, and (he plunging of 


MACLEOD OF DACE. 267 

the boat, and the rushing of the seas, so long as that beauti- 
ful clear sky shone overhead ? 

“ Gertrude,” said he, in a low voice, “ do you see the 
phosphorous-stars on the waves ? I never saw them burn 
more brightly.” 

“ They are very beautiful,” said she. “ When do we get 
to land, Keith ? ” 

“Oh, pretty soon,” said he. “You are not anxious to 
■ get to land ? ” 

“It is stormier than I expected.” 

“ Oh, this is nothing,” said he. “ I thought you would 
enjoy it.” 

However, that summer night’s sail was like to prove a 
tougher business than Keith Macleod had bargained for. 
They had been out scarcely twenty minutes when Miss White 
heard the man at the bow call out something, which she could 
not understand, to Macleod. She saw him crane his neck 
forward, as if looking ahead ; and she herself, looking in 
that direction, could perceive that from the horizon almost 
to the zenith the stars had become invisible. 

“It may be a little bit squally,” he said to her, “ but we 
shall soon be under the lee of Iona. Perhaps you had better 
hold on to something.” 

The advice was not ill-timed ; for almost as he spoke the 
first gust of the squall struck the boat, and^there was a sound 
as if everything had been torn asunder and sent overboard. 
Then, as she righted just in time to meet the crash of the 
next wave, it seemed as though the world had grown per- 
fectly black around them. The terrified vyoman seated there 
could no longer make out Macleod’s figure ; it was impossible 
to speak amidst this roar ; it almost seemed to her that she 
was alone with those howling winds and heaving waves — at 
night on the open sea. The wind rose, and the sea too ; she 
heard the men call out and Macleod answer ; and all the 
time the boat was creaking and groaning as she was flung 
high on the mighty waves only to go staggering down into 
the awful troughs behind. 

“ Oh, Keith ! ” she cried — and involuntarily she seized 
his arm — “ are we in danger ? ” 

He could not hear what she said ; but he understood the 
mute appeal. Quickly disengaging his arm — for it was the 
*rm that was working the tiller — he called to her, — 

“ We are all right. If you are afraid, get to the bottom 
of the boat.” 


268 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 

But unhappily she did not hear this ; for, as he called her, 
a heavy sea struck the bows, sprung high in the air, and then 
fell over them in a deluge which nearly choked her. She 
understood, though, his throwing away her hand. It was the 
triumph of brute selfishness in the moment of danger. They 
were drowning, and he would not let her come near him ! And 
so she shrieked aloud for her father. 

Hearing those shrieks, Macleod called to one of the two 
men, who came stumbling along in the dark and got hoi 4 oi 
the tiller. There was a slight lull in the storm, and he caught 
her two hands and held her. 

“ Gertrude, what is the matter? You are perfectly safe, 
and so is your father. For Heaven’s sake, keep still ! if you 
get up, you will be knocked overboard ! ” 

“ Where is papa ? ” she cried. 

“ I am here — I am all right, Gerty ! ” was the answer — 
which came from the bottom of the boat, into which Mr. 
White had very prudently slipped. 

And then, as they got under the lee of the island, they 
found themselves in smoother water, though from time to 
time squalls came over and threatened to flatten the great 
lugsail right on to the waves. 

“ Come now, Gertrude,” said Macleod, “ we shall be 
ashore in a few minutes, and you are not frightened of a 
squall ? ” 

H e had his arfh round her, and he held her tight ; but she 
did not answer. At last she saw a light — a small, glimmer- 
ing orange thing that quivered apparently a hundred miles 
off. 

“ See ! ” he said. “ We are close by. And it may cleai 
up to-night, after all.” 

Then he shouted to one of the men : 

“ Sandy, we will not try the quay the night : we will go 
into the Martyr’s Bay.” 

“ Ay, ay, sir ! ” 

It was about a quarter of an hour after that — almost be- 
numbed with fear — she discovered that the 1 oat was in 
smooth water ; and then there was a loud clatter of the sail 
coming down ; and she heard the two sailors calling to each 
other, and one of them seemed to have got overboard. There 
was absolutely nothing visible — not even a distant light ; but 
it was raining heavily. Then she knew that Macleod had 
moved away from her ; and she thought she heard a splash 
hi the water ; and then a voice beside her said, — 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 269 

0 Gertrude, will you not get up ? You must let me carry 
you ashore.” 

And she found herself in his arms — carried as lightly as 
though she had been a young lamb or a fawn from the hills ; 
but she knew from the slow way of his walking that he was 
going through the sea. Then he set her on the shore. 

“Take my hand,” said he. 

“ But where is papa ? ” 

“ Just behind us,” said he, “ on Sandy’s shoulders. Sandy 
will bring him along. Come, darling ! ” 

“ But where are we going ? ” 

“There is a little inn near the Cathedral. And perhaps 
it will clear up to-night; and we will have a fine sail back 
again to Dare.” 

She shuddered. Not for ten thousand worlds would she 
pass through once more that seething pit of howling sounds 
and raging seas. 

He held her ann firmly ; and she stumbled along through 
the darkness, not knowing whether she was walking through 
sea-weed, or pools of water, or wet corn. And at last they 
came to a door ; and the door was opened ; and there was a 
blaze of orange light ; and they entered — all dripping and un- 
recognizable — the warm, snug little place, 'to the astonishment 
of a handsome young lady who proved to be their hostess. 

“ Dear me, Sir Keith,” said she at length, “ is it you in- 
deed ! And you will not be going back to Dare to-night ? ” 

In fact, when Mr. White arrived, it was soon made evi- 
dent that going back to Dare that night was out of the ques- 
tion ; for somehow the old gentleman, despite his waterproofs, 
had managed to get soaked through ; and he was determined 
to go to bed at once, so as to have his clothes dried. And 
so the hospitalities of the little inn were requisitioned to the 
utmost ; and as there was no whiskey to be had, they had to 
content themselves with hot tea ; and then they all retired to 
rest for the night, convinced that the moonlight visitation of 
the ruins had to be postponed. 

But next day — such are the rapid changes in the High- 
lands — broke blue and fair and shining ; and Miss Gertrude 
White was amazed to find that the awfil Sound she had come 
along on the previous night was now brilliant in the most 
beautiful colors — for the tide was low, and the yellow sand- 
banks were shining through the blue waters of the sea. And 
would she not, seeing that the boat was lying down at the 
quay now, sail round the island, and see the splendid sight 


270 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


of the Atlantic breaking on the wild coast on the western 
side ? She hesitated; and then, when it was suggested that 
she might walk across the island, she eagerly accepted that 
alternative. They set out, on this hot, bright, beautiful day. 

But where he, eager to please her and show the beauties of 
the Highlands, saw lovely white sands, and smiling plains of 
verdure, and far views of the sunny sea, she only saw loneli- 
ness, and desolation, and a constant threatening of death 
from the fierce Atlantic. Could anything have been mote 
beautiful, he said to himself, than this magnificent scene that 
lay all around her when they reached a far point on the west- 
ern shore ? — in face of them the wildly rushing seas, coming 
thundering on to the rocks, and springing so high into the 
air that the snow-white foam showed black against the glare 
of the sky ; the nearer islands gleaming with a touch of brown 
on their sunw'ard side ; the Dutchman's Cap, with its long 
brim and conical centre, and Lunga, also like a cap, but with 
a shorter brim and a high peak in front, becoming a trifle 
blue ; then Coll and Tiree lying like a pale stripe on the 
horizon ; while far away in the north the mountains of Rum 
and Skye were faint and spectral in the haze of the sunlight. 
Then the wild coast around them ; with its splendid masses 
of granite ; and its spare grass a brown-green in the warm 
sun ; and its bays of silver sand ; and its sea-birds whiter 
than the white clouds that came sailing over the blue. She 
recognized only the awfulness and the loneliness of that wild 
shore ; with its suggestions of crashing storms in the night- 
time, and the cries of drowning men dashed helplessly on 
the cruel rocks. She was very silent all the way back, though 
he told her stories of the fairies that used to inhabit those 
sandy and grassy plains. 

And could anything have been more magical than the 
beauty of that evening, after the storm had altogether died 
away ? The red sunset sank behind the dark olive-green of 
the hills ; a pale, clear twilight took its place, and shone over 
those mystic ruins that were the object of many a thought 
and many a pilgrimage in the far past and forgotten years ; 
and then the stars began to glimmer as the distant shores 
and the sea grew dark ; and then, still later on, a wonderful 
radiance rose behind the low hills of Mull, and across the 
waters of the Sound came a belt of quivering light as the 
white moon sailed slowly up into the sky. Would they ven- 
ture out now into the silence ? There was an odor of new- 
mown hay in the night air. Far away they could hear the 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


271 

murmuring of the waves around the rocks. They did not 
speak a word as they walked along to those solemn ruins 
overlooking the sea, that were now a mass of mysterious 
shadow, except where the eastern walls and the tower were 
touched by the silvery light that had just come into the 
heavens. 

And in silence they entered the still churchyaid, too, and 
passed the graves. The buildings seemed to rise above them 
in a darkened majesty ; before them was a portal through 
which a glimpse of the moonlight sky was visible. Would 
they enter then ? 

“ I am almost afraid,” she said, in a low voice, to her 
companion, and the hand on his arm trembled. 

But no sooner had she spoken than there was a sudden 
sound in the night that caused her heart to jump. All over 
them and around them, as it seemed, there was a wild uproar 
of wings ; and the clear sky above them was darkened by a 
cloud of objects wheeling this way and that, until at length 
they swept by overhead as if blown by a whirlwind, and 
crossed the clear moonlight in a dense body. She had 
quickly clung to him in her fear. 

“It is only the jackdaws — there are hundreds of them,” 
he said to her ; but even his voice sounded strange in this 
hollow building. 

For they had now entered by the open doorway ; and all 
around them were the tall and crumbling pillars, and the 
arched windows, and ruined walls, here and there catching 
the sharp light of the moonlight, here and there showing 
soft and gray with a reflected light, with spaces of black 
shadow which led to unknown recesses. And always over- 
head the clear sky with its pale stars ; and always, far away, 
the melancholy sound of the sea. 

“ Do you know where you are standing now ? ” said he, 
almost sadly. “ You are standing on the grave of Macleod 
of Macleod.” 

She started aside with a slight exclamation. 

“ I do not think they bury any one in here now,” said lie, 
gently. And then he added, “ Do you know that I have 
chosen the place for my grave ? It is away out at one of the 
Treshnish islands; it is a bay looking to the west; there is 
no one living on that island. It is only a fancy of mine — to 
rest for ever and ever with no sound around you but the sea 
and the winds — no step coming near you, and no voice but 
the waves.” 


MACLEOD Ofi DARE. 


272 

“ Oh Keith, you should not say such things : you frighten 
me ! ” she said, in a trembling voice. 

Another voice broke in upon them, harsh and pragmat 
ical. 

“ Do you know, Sir Keith,” said Mr. White, briskly, ‘ that 
the. moonlight is clear enough to let you make out this plan ? 
But I can’t get the building to correspond. This is the chan* 
cel, I believe ; but where are the cloisters ? ” 

“ I will show you,” Macleod said ; and he led his com* 
panion through the silent and solemn place, her father follow- 
ing. In the darkness they passed through an archway, and 
were about to step out on to a piece of grass, when suddenly 
Miss White uttered a wild scream of terror and sank help- 
lessly to the ground. She had slipped from his arm, but in 
an instant he had caught her again and had raised her on his 
bended knee, and was calling to her with kindly words. 

“ Gertrude, Gertrude ! ” he said. “ What is the matter ? 
Won’t you speak to me ? ” 

And just as she was pulling herself together the innocent 
cause of this commotion was discovered. It was a black 
lamb that had come up in the most friendly manner and had 
rubbed its head against her hand to attract her notice. 

“ Gertrude, see ! it is only a lamb ! It comes up to me 
every time I visit the ruins ; look ! ” 

And, indeed, she was mightily ashamed of herself ; and 
pretended to be vastly interested in the ruins ; and was quite 
charmed with the view of the Sound in the moonlight, with 
the low hills beyond, now grown quite black ; but all the same 
she was very silent as they walked back to the inn. And she 
was pale and thoughtful, too, while they were having their 
frugal supper of bread and milk ; and very soon, pleading 
fatigue, she retired. But all the same, when Mr. White went 
upstairs, some time after, he had been but a short while in 
his room when he heard a tapping at the door. He said 
u Come in,” and his daughter entered. He was surprised by 
the curious look of her face — a sort of piteous look, as of one 
ill at ease, and yet ashamed to speak. 

“ What is it, child ? ” said he. 

She regarded him for a second with that piteous look ; 
and then tears slowly gathered in her eyes. 

“ Papa,” said she, in a sort of half-hysterical way, “ I want 
you to take me away from here. It frightens me. I don’t 
know what it is. He was talking to me about graves ” 

And here she burst out crying, and sobbed bitterly. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


*73 

“ Oh, nonsense, child ! ” her father said ; “ your nervous 
system must have been shaken last night by that storm. 1 
have seen a strange look upon your face all day. It was 
certainly a mistake our coming here; you are not fitted for 
this savage life.” 

She grew more composed. She sat down for a few min- 
utes ; and her father, taking out a small flask which had been 
filled from a bottle of brandy sent over during the day from 
Castle Dare, poured out a little of the spirits, added some 
water, and made her drink the dose as a sleeping draught.” 

“ Ah well, you know, pappy,” said she, as she rose to leave, 
and she bestowed a very pretty smile on him, “ it is all in the 
way of experience, isn’t it ? and an artist should experience 
everything. But there is just a little too much about graves 
and ghosts in these parts for me. And I suppose we shall 
go to-morrow to see some cave or other where two or three 
hundred men, women, and children were murdered.” 

“ I hope in going back we shall not be as near our own 
grave as we were last night,” her father observed. 

“ And Keith Macleod laughs at it,” she said, “ and says 
it was unfortunate we got a wetting ! ” 

And so she went to bed ; and the sea-air had dealt well 
with her ; and she had no dreams at all of shipwrecks, or of 
black familiars in moonlit shrines. Why should her sleep be 
disturbed because that night she had put her foot on the grave 
of the chief of the Macleods ? 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE UMPIRE. 

Next morning, with all this wonderful woild of sea and 
islands shining in the early sunlight, Mr. White and his 
daughter were down by the shore, walking along the white 
sands, and chatting idly as they went. From time to time 
they looked across the fair summer seas to the distant cliffs 
of Bourg , and each time they looked a certain small white 
speck seemed coming nearer. That was the Umpire ; and 
Keith Macleod was on board of her. He had started at an 
unknown hour of the night to bring the yacht over from her 


274 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


anchorage. He would not have his beautiful Fionaghal, who 
had come as a stranger to these far lands, go back to Dare 
in a common open boat with stones for ballast. 

“ This is the loneliest place I have ever seen,” Miss Ger- 
trude White was saying on this the third morning after hef 
arrival. “ It seems scarcely in the world at all. The sea 
cuts you off from everything you know ; it would have been 
nothing if we had come by rail.” 

They walked on in silence, the blue waves beside them 
curling a crisp white on the smooth sands. 

“ Pappy,” said she, at length, “ I suppose if I lived heie 
for six months n ) one in England would know anything about 
me ? If I were mentioned at all, they would think I was 
dead. Perhaps some day I might meet some one from Eng- 
land ; and I would have to say, ‘ Don’t you know who I am ? 
Did you never hear of one called Gertrude White ? I was 
Gertrude White.’ ” 

“ No doubt,” said her father, cautiously. 

“ And when Mr. Lemuel’s portrait of me appears in the 
Academy, people would be saying, ‘ Who is that ? ’ Miss 
Gertrude White, as Juliet ? Ah, there was an actress of that 
name. Or was she an amateur ? She married somebody in 
the Highlands. I suppose she is dead now ? ” 

“ It is one of the most gratifying instances, Gerty, of the 
position you have made,” her father observed, in his slow 
and sententious way, “that Mr. Lemuel should be so willing, 
after having refused to exhibit at the Academy for so many 
years, to make an exception in the case of your portrait.” 

“ Well, I hope my face will not get burned by the sea-air 
and the sun,” she said. “You know he wants two or three 
more sittings. And do you know, \ appy, I have sometimes 
thought of asking you to tell me honestly — not to encourage 
me with flatter) 7 , you know — whether my face has really that 
high-strung pitch of expression when I am about to drink the 
poison in the cell. Do I really look like Mr. Lemuel’s por- 
trait of me ? ” 

“ It is your very self, Gerty,” her father said, with de- 
cision. “ But then Mr. Lemuel is a man of genius. Who bul 
himself could have caught the very soul of your acting and 
fixed it on canvas ? ” 

She hesitated for a moment, and then there was a flush of 
genuine enthusiastic pride mantling on her forehead as sho 
•aid, frankly,— 

“ Well, then, I wish I could see myself i ” 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


275 

Mr. White said nothing. He had watched this daughter 
01 his through the long winter months. Occasionally, when 
he heard her utter sentiments such as these — and when he 
saw her keenly sensitive to the flattery bestowed upon her 
by the people assembled at Mr. Lemuel’s little gatherings, he 
had asked himself whether it was possible she could ever 
marry Sir Keith Macleod. But he was too wise to risk re- 
awakening her rebellious fits by any encouragement. In any 
case, he had some experience of this young lady ; and what 
was the use of combatting one of her moods at five o’clock, 
when at six o’clock she would be arguing in the contrary di 
rection, and at seven convinced that the viv media was the 
straight road ? Moreover, if the worst came to the worst, 
there would be some compensation in the fact of Miss White 
changing her name for that of Lady Macleod. 

Just as quickly she changed her mood on the present oc- 
casion. She was looking again far over the darkly blue and 
ruffled seas toward the white-sailed yacht. 

“ He must have gone away in the dark to get that boat 
for us,” said she, musingly. “ Poor fellow, how very generous 
and kind he is ! Sometimes — shall I make the confession, 
pappy ? — I wish he had picked out some one who could better 
have returned his warmth of feeling.” 

She called it a confession ; but it w r as a question. And 
her father answered more bluntly than she had quite expected. 

“ I am not much of an authority on such points,” said he, 
with a dry smile ; “ but I should have said, Gerty that you 
have not been quite so effusive towards Sir Keith Macleod 
as some young ladies would have been on meeting their 
sweetheart after a long absence.” 

The pale face flushed, and she answered, hastily, 

“ But you know, papa, when you are knocked about from 
one boat to another, and expecting to be ill one minute and 
drowned the next, you don’t have your temper improved, do 
you ? And then perhaps you have been expecting a little too 
much romance ? — and you find your Highland chieftain hand- 
ing down loaves, with all the people in the steamer staring 
at him. But I really mean to make it up to him, papa, if I 
could only get settled down for a day or two and get into 
my own ways. Oh dear me ! — this sun — it is too awfully 
dreadful ! When I appear before Mr. Lemuel again, I shall 
be a mulatto ! ” 

And as they walked along the burning sands, with the 
waves monotonously breaking, the white-sailed yacht came 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


276 

nearer and more near ; and, indeed, the old Umpire , broad* 
beamed and heavy as she was, looked quite stately and swan- 
like as she came over the blue water. And they saw the gig 
lowered ; and the four oars keeping rhythmical time ; and 
presently they could make out the browned and glad face of 
Macleod. 

“ Why did you take so much trouble ? ” said she to him- — 
and she took his hand in a very kind way as he stepped on 
shore. “ We could very well have gone back in the boat.” 

“ Oh, but I want to take you round by Loch Tua,” said 
he, looking with great gratitude into those friendly eyes. 

And it was no trouble at all. And will you step into the 
gig now ? ” 

He took her hand and guided her along the rocks until 
she reached the boat ; and he assisted her father too. Then 
they pushed off, and it was with a good swing the men sent 
the boat through the lapping waves. And here was Hamish 
standing by the gangway to receive them ; and he was 
gravely respectful to the stranger lady, as he assisted her to 
get up the small wooden steps ; but there was no light of 
welcome in the keen gray eyes. He quickly turned away 
from her to give his orders ; for Hamish was on this occa- 
sion skipper, and had donned a smart suit of blue with brass 
buttons. Perhaps he would have been prouder of his buttons, 
and of himself, and of the yacht he had sailed for so many 
years, if it had been any other than Gertrude White who had 
now stepped on board. 

But, on the other hand, Miss White was quite charmed 
with this shapely vessel and all its contents. If the frugal 
ways and commonplace duties and conversation of Castle 
Dare had somewhat disappointed her, and had seemed to 
her not quite in accordance with the heroic traditions of the 
clans, here, at least, was something which she could recog- 
nize as befitting her notion of the name and position of Sir 
Keith Macleod. Surely it must be with a certain masterful 
sense of possession that he would stand on those white decks, 
independent of all the world besides, with those sinewy, sun- 
browned, handsome fellows ready to go anywhere with him 
at his bidding ? It is true that Macleod, in showing her over 
the yacht, seemed to know far too much about tinned meats ; 
and he exhibited with some pride a cunning device for the 
stowage of soda-water ; and he even went the length of ex- 
plaining to her the capacities of the linen-chest ; but then 
she could not fail to see that, in his eagerness to interest and 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 277 

amuse her, he was as garrulous as a schoolboy showing to 
his companion a new toy. Miss White sat down in the 
saloon ; and Macleod, who had but little experience in at* 
tending on ladies, and knew of but one thing that it was 
proper to recommend, said, — 

“ And will you have a cup of tea now, Gertrude ? Johnny 
will get it to you in a moment.” 

“ No, thank you,” said she, with a smile , for she knew not 
how often he had offered her a cup of tea since her arrival in 
the Highlands. “ But do you know, Keith, your yacht has a 
terrible bachelor look about it ? All the comforts of it are in 
this saloon and in those two nice little state-rooms. Yout 
lady’s cabin looks very empty ; it is too elegant and fine, as if 
you were afraid to leave a book or a match-box in it. Now, 
if you were to turn this into a lady’s yacht; you would have 
to remove that pipe-rack, and the guns and rifles and bags.” 

“ Oh,” said he, anxiously, “ I hope you do not smell any 
tobacco ? ” 

“ Not at all,” said she. ‘‘It was only a fancy. Of course 
you are not likely to turn your yacht into a lady’s yacht.” 

He started and looked at her. But she had spoken quite 
thoughtlessly, and had now turned to her father. 

When they went on deck again they found that the Um- 
pire, beating up in the face of a light northerly breeze, had 
run out for a long tack almost to the Dutchman’s Cap ; and 
from a certain distance they could see the grim shores of this 
desolate island, with its faint tinge of green grass over the 
brown of its plateau of rock. And then Hamish called out, 
“ Ready, about ! ” and presently they were slowly leaving be- 
hind that lonely Dutchman and making away for the distant 
entrance to Loch Tua. The breeze was slight ; they made but 
little way ; far on the blue waters they w r atched the white gulls 
sitting buoyant ; and the sun was hot on their hands. What 
did they talk about in this summer idleness ? Many a time 
lie had dreamed of his thus sailing over the clear seas with 
the fair Fionaghal from the South, until at times his heart, 
giown sick with yearning, was ready to despair of the im- 
possible. And yet here she was sitting on a deck-stool near 
him — the wide-apart, long-lashed eyes occasionally regarding 
him — a neglected book open on her lap — the small gloved 
hands toying with the cover. Yet there w r as no word of love 
spoken. There was only a friendly conversation, and the 
idle passing of a summer day. It was something to know 
that her breathing was near him. 


MACLEOD OF DA EE 


27S 

Then the breeze died away altogether, and they were 
left altogether motionless on the glassy blue sea. The great 
sails hung limp, without a single flap or quiver in them ; the 
red ensign clung to the jigger-mast ; Hamish, though he 
stood by the tiller, did not even put his hand on that bold 
and notable representation in wood of the sea-serpent. 

“ Come now, Hamish,” Macleod said, fearing this mo- 
notonous idleness would weary his fair guest, “ you will tell 
us now one of the old stories that you used to tell me when 
I was a boy.” 

Hamish had, indeed, told the young Macleod many a 
mysterious tale of magic and adventure, but he was not dis- 
posed to repeat any one of these in broken English in order 
to please this lady from the South. 

“It is no more of the stories I hef now, Sir Keith,” said 
he. “ It was a long time since I had the stories.” 

“ Oh, I could construct one myself,” said Miss White, 
lightly. “ Don’t I know how they all begin ? 4 There was once 
a king in Erin , and he had a son and this son it was who would 
take the world for his pillow. But before he set out on his travels, 
he took counsel of the falcon , and the hoodie, and the otter. And 
the falcon said to him, go to the right; and the hoodie saia to 
him, you will be wise now if you go to the left ; but the otter 
said to him, now take my advice ,’ etc., etc. ” 

“ You have been a diligent student,” Macleod said, 
laughing heartily. 44 And, indeed, you might go on with the 
story and finish it ; for who knows now when we shall get 
back to Dare ? ” 

It was after a long period of thus lying in dead calm — 
with the occasional appearance of a diver on the surface of 
the shining blue sea — that Macleod’s sharply observant eye 
was attracted by an odd thing that appeared far away at the 
horizon. 

“ What do you think is that now ? ” said he, with a smile. 

They looked steadfastly, and saw only a thin line of 
silver light, almost like the back of a knife, in the distant 
dark blue. 

“ The track of a seal swimming under water,” Mr. White 
suggested. 

“ Or a shoal of fish,” his daughter said. 

“ Watch ! ” 

The sharp line of light slowly spread ; a trembling silver- 
array took the place of the dark blue ; it looked as if invisible 
angers were rushing out and over the glassy surface. Then 


MACLEOD OF DARE. ' 


279 


they felt a cool freshness in the hot air ; the red ensign 
swayed a bit ; then the great mainsail flapped idly ; and 
finally the breeze came gently blowing over the sea, and on 
again they went through the now rippling water. And as 
the slow time passed in the glare of the sunlight, Staffa !ay 
on the still water a dense mass of shadow; and they went by 
Lunga ; and they drew near to the point of Gometra, where 
'he black skarts were sitting on the exposed rocks. It was 
dke a dream of sunlight, and fair colors, and summer quiet. 

E cannot believe,” said she to him, “ that those fierce 
murders and revenges took place in such beautiful scenes as 
these. How could they ? ” 

And then, in the broad and still waters of Loch Tua, 
with the lonely rocks of Ulva close by them, they were again 
becalmed ; and now it was decided that they should leave 
the yacht there at certain moorings, and should get into the 
gig and be pulled through the shallow channel between Ulva 
and Mull that connects Loch Tua with Loch-na-Keal. 
Macleod had been greatly favored by the day chosen at hap- 
hazard for this water promenade : at the end of it he was 
gladdened to hear Miss White say that she had never seen 
anything so lovely on the face of the earth. 

And yet it was merely a question of weather. To-morrow 
they might come back and find the water a ruffled leaden 
color ; the waves washing over the rocks ; Ben More invisi- 
ble behind driving clouds. But now, as those three sat in 
the stern of the gig, and were gently pulled by the sweep of 
the oars, it seemed to one at least of them that she must 
have got into fairyland. The rocky shores of Ulva lay on 
one side of this broad and winding channel, the flatter shores 
of Mull on the other, and between lay a perfect mirror of 
water, in which everything was so accurately reflected that 
it was quite impossible to define the line at which the water 
and the land met. In fact, so vivid was the reflection of the 
blue and white sky on the surface of the water that it appeared 
to her as if the boat was suspended in mid-air — a sky below, a 
sky above. And then the beauty of the landscape that enclosed 
this wonderful mirror — the soft green foliage above the Ulva 
rocks ; the brilliant yellow-brown of the sea-weed, with here 
there a gray heron standing solitary and silent as a ghost 
over the pools ; ahead of them, towering above this flat and 
shining and beautiful landscape, the awful majesty of the 
mountains around Loch-na-Keal — the monarch of tnem, Ben 
More, showing a cone of dark and thunderous purple under 


i8o MACLEOD OF DA EE. 

a long and heavy swathe of cloud. Far away, too, on theii 
right, stretched the splendid rampart of the Gribun cliffs, a 
soft sunlight on die grassy greens of theii summits ; a pale 
and brilliant blue in the shadows of the huge and yawning 
caves. And so still it was, and the air so fine and sweet : it 
was a day for the idling of happy lovers. 

What jarred, then ? Not the silent appearance of the 
head of a seal in that shining plain of blue and white ; for 
the poor old fellow only regarded the boat for a second or 
two with his large and pathetic eyes, and then quietly disap- 
peared. Perhaps it was this — that Miss White was leaning 
over the side of the boat, and admiring very much the won- 
derful hues of groups of sea-weed below, that were all dis- 
tinctly visible in the marvellously clear water. There were 
beautiful green plants that spread their flat fingers over the 
silver-white sands ; and huge rolls of purple and sombre 
brown ; and long strings that came up to the surface — the 
traceries and decorations of these haunts of the mermaid. 

“ It is like a pantomime,” she said. “ You would expect 
to see a burst of lime-light, and Neptune appearing with a 
silver trident and crown. Well, it only shows that the scene- 
painters are nearer nature than most people imagine. I 
should never have thought there was anything so beautiful 
in the sea.” 

And then again she said, when they had rounded Ulva, 
and got a glimpse of the open Atlantic again, 

“ Where is it, Keith, you proposed to sink all the theatres 
in England for the benefit of the dolphins and the lobsters ? ” 

He did not like these references to the theatre. 

“ It was only a piece of nonsense,” said he, abruptly. 

But then she begged him so prettily to get the men to 
sing the boat-song, that he good-humoredly took out a sheet 
of paper and a pencil, and said to her, — 

“ If I write it down for you, I must write it as it is pro- 
nounced. For how would you know that Fhir a bhata , na 
horo eile is pronounced Feer a rahta na horo ailya ? ” 

“ And perhaps, then,” said she, with a charming smile, 
“ writing it down would spoil it altogether ? . But you will 
ask them to sing it for me.” 

He said a woid or two in the Gaelic to Sandy, who was 
rowing stroke ; and Sandy answered with a short, quick laugh 
of assent. 

“ I have asked them if they would drink your health,” 
Macleod said, “ and they have not refused. It would be a 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


281 


great compliment to them if you would fill out the whiskey 
yourself ; here is my flask.” 

She took that formidable vessel in her small hands, and 
the men rested on their oars ; and then the metal cup was 
passed along. Whether it was the dram, 01 whether it was 
the old familiar chorus they struck up — 

u Fhir a bhata (na horo eilej 
Fhir a bhata (na horo eile) 

Fhir a bhata (na horo eile) 

Chead soire slann leid ge thobh a thcid u/’ 

certain it is that the boat swung forward with a new strength, 
and erelong they beheld in the distance the walls of Castle 
Dare. And here was Janet at the small qu 'y, greatly dis* 
tressed because of the discomfort to which AJ * ss White must 
have been subjected. 

“ But I have been telling Sir Keith,” sh n said, with a 
sweet smile, “ that I have come through the most beautiful 
place I have ever seen in the world.” 

This w r as not, however, what she was sayi"g to herself 
w 7 hen she reached the privacy of her own room. /ler thoughts 
took a different turn. 

“ And if it does seem impossible ” — this was her inward 
speech to herself — “ that those wild murders should have 
been committed in so beautiful a place, at least the *-e will be 
a fair chance of one occurring when I tell him tha 1 - I have 
signed an engagement that will last till Christmas. But what 
good could come of being in a hurry ? ” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

A CAVE IN MULL. 

Of love not a single w r ord had so far been said between 
these two. It was a high sense of courtesy that on his part 
had driven him to exercise this severe self-restraint ; he 
would not invite her to be his guest, and then take advantage 
of the various opportunities offered to plague her with the 
vehemence and passionate yearning of his heart. For dur- 
ing all those long winter months he had gradually learned, 


MACLEAD OF DARE . 


882 

from the correspondence which he so carefully studied, that 
she rather disliked protestation ; and when he hinted that 
he thought her letters to him were somewhat cold, she only 
answered with a playful humor ; and when he tried to press 
her to some declaration about her leaving the stage or about 
the time of their marriage, she evaded the point with an ex- 
treme cleverness which was so good-natured and friendly 
that he could scarcely complain. Occasionally there weie 
references in these letters that awakened in his breast a tu- 
mult of jealous suspicions and fears ; but then again he con- 
soled himself by looking forward to the time when she should 
be released from all those environments that he hated and 
dreaded. He would have no more fear when he could take 
her hand and look into her eyes. 

And now that Miss Gertrude White was actually in Castle 
Dare — now that he could walk with her along the lonely 
mountain-slopes and show her the wonders of the Western 
seas and the islands — what was it that still occasioned that 
vague unrest ? His nervous anxiety that she should be 
pleased with all she . saw ? or a certain critical coldness in 
her glance ? or the consciousness that he was only entertain- 
ing a passing visitor — a beautiful bird that had alighted on 
his hand, and that the next moment would be winging its 
flight away into the silvery South ? 

“ You are becoming a capital sailor,” he said to her one 
day, with a proud light on his face. “ You have no fear at 
all of the sea now.” 

He and she and the cousin Janet — Mr. White had some 
letters to answer, and had stayed at home — were in the stern 
of the gig, and they were being rowed along the coast below 
the giant cliffs of Gribun. Certainly if Miss White had con 
fessed to being a little nervous, she might have been excused 
It was a beautiful, fresh, breezy, summer day ; but the heavy 
Atlantic swell, that slowly raised and lowered the boat as the 
men rowed along, passed gently and smoothly on, and then 
went booming and roaring and crashing over the sharp black 
rocks that were quite close at hand. 

“ I think I would soon get over my fear of the sea,’ she 
said, gently. 

Indeed, it was not that that was most likely to impress 
her on this bright day — it was the awful loneliness and deso- 
lation of the scene around her. All along the summit of the 
great cliffs lay heavy banks of cloud that moved and wreathed 
Acmselves together, with mysterious patches of darkness 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 


283 

here and there that suggested the entrance into far valleys 
in the unseen mountains behind. And if the outer surface 
of these precipitous cliffs was brightened by sunlight, and if 
there was a sprinkling of grass on the ledges, every few min- 
utes they passed the yawning archway of a huge cavern, 
around which the sea was roaring with a muffled and thun- 
derous noise. He thought she would be interested in the 
extraordinary number and variety of the sea-birds about — the 
solemn cormorants sitting on the ledges, the rock-pigeons 
shooting out from the caves, the sea-pyots whirring along the 
rocks like lightning-flashes of color, the lordly osprey, with 
his gieat wings outstretched and motionless, sailing slowly in 
the far blue overhead. And no doubt she looked at all these 
things with a forced interest ; and she herself now could 
name the distant islands out in the tossing Atlantic ; and she 
had in a great measure got accustomed to the amphibious 
life at Dare. But as she listened to the booming of the 
waves around those awful recesses ; and as she saw the jagged 
and angry rocks suddenly appear through the liquid mass of 
the falling sea ; and as'she looked abroad on the unknown 
distances of that troubled ocean, and thought of the life on 
those remote and lonely islands, the spirit of a summer holi- 
day forsook her altogether, and she was silent. 

“ And you will have no fear of the beast when you go 
into Mackinnon’s cave,” said Janet Macleod to her, with a 
friendly smile, “ because no one has ever heard of it again. 
Do you know, it was a strange thing ? They saw in the sand 
the footprint of an animal that is not known to any one 
about here ; even Keith himself did not know what it was — ” 

“ I think it was a wild-cat,” said he. 

“ And the men they had nothing to do then ; and they 
went all about the caves, but they could see nothing of it. 
And it has never come back again.” 

“And I suppose you are not anxious for its coming 
back ? ” Miss White said. 

“ Perhaps you will be very lucky and see it some day, 
and I know that Keith would like to shoot it, whatever it is.” 

“ That is very likely,” Miss White said, without any ap- 
parent sarcasm. 

By and by they paused opposite the entrance to a cave that 
seemed even larger and blacker than the others ; and then 
Miss White discovered that they were considering at what 
point they could most easily effect a landing. Already 
tkrough the singularly clear water she could make out vague 


MACLEOD of dare . 


284 

green masses that told of the presence of huge blocks of yel- 
low rock far below them ; and as they cautiously went 
farther toward the shore, a man at the bow calling out to 
them, these blocks of rock became clearer and clearer, until 
it seemed as if those glassy billows that glided under the 
boat, and then went crashing in white foam a few yards be- 
yond, must inevitably transfix the frail craft on one of these 
jagged points. But at length they managed to run the bow 
of the gig into a somewhat sheltered place, and two of the 
men, jumping knee-deep into the water, hauled the keel still 
farther over the grating shell-fish of the rock ; and then 
Macleod, scrambling out, assisted Miss White to land. 

“ Do you not come with us ? ” Miss White called back to 
the boat. 

“ Oh, it is many a time I have been in the cave,” said 
Janet Macleod ; “and P will have the luncheon ready for 
you. And you will not stay long in the cave, for it is cold 
and damp.” 

He took her hand, for the scrambling over the rough 
rocks and stones was dangerous work for unfamiliar ankles. 
They drew nearer to this awful thing, that rose far above 
them, and seemed waiting to enclose them and shut them in 
forever. And whereas about the other caves there were 
plenty of birds flying, with their shrill screams denoting 
their terror or resentment, there was no sign of life at all 
about this black and yawning chasm, and there was an abso- 
lute silence, but for the rolling of the breakers behind them 
that only produced vague and wandering echoes. As she 
advanced over the treacherous shingle, she became conscious 
of a sort of twilight appearing around her. A vast black 
thing — black as night and still as the grave — was ahead of 
her ; but already the change from the blaze of sunlight out- 
side to this partial darkness seemed strange on the eyes. 
The air grew colder. As she looked up at the tremendous 
walls, and at the mysterious blackness beyond, she grasped 
his hand more tightly, though the walking on the wet sand 
was now comparatively easy. And as they went farther and 
farther into this blackness, there was only a faint, strange 
light that made an outline of the back of his figure, leaving 
his face in darkness ; and when he stopped to examine the 
sand, she turned and looked back, and behold the vast por- 
tal by which they entered had now dwindled down into a 
small space of bewildering white. 

u No,” said he, and she was startled by the hollow tones 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 285 

of his voice ; “ I cannot find any traces of the boat news : 
they have all gone.” 

Then he produced a candle and lit it ; and as they ad- 
vanced farther into the blackness, there was visible this 
solitary star of red fire, that threw dull, mysterious gleams 
from time to time on some projecting rocks. 

“ You must give me your hand again, Keith,” said she, 
r a low voice ; and when he shifted the candle, and took 
h^f hand in his, he found that it was trembling somewhat. 

“ Will you go any farther ? ” said he. 

“ No.” 

They stood and looked around. The darkness seemed 
without limits ; the red light was insufficient to produce any- 
thing like an outline of this immense place, even in faint and 
wandering gleams. 

“ If anything were to move, Keith,” said she, “ I should 
die.” 

“ Oh, nonsense ! ” said he, in a cheerful way ; but the 
hollow echoes of the cavern made his voice sound sepulchral. 
“ There is no beast at all in here, you may be sure. And I 
have often thought of the fright a wild-cat or a beaver may 
have got when he came in here in the night, and then discov- 
ered he had stumbled on a lot of sleeping men ” 

“ Of men ! ” 

“ They say this was a sanctuary of the Culdees ; and I 
often wonder how the old chaps got their food. I am afraid 
they must have often fallen back on the young cormorants : 
that is what Major Stuart calls an expeditious way of dining 
— for you eat two courses, fish and meat, at the same time. 
And if you go further along, Gertrude, you will come to the 
great altar-stone they used.” 

“ I would rather not go,” said she. “ I — I do not like 
this place. I think we will go back now, Keith.” 

As they cautiously made their way back to the glare of the 
entrance, she still held his hand tight ; and she did not speak 
at all. Their footsteps echoed strangely in this hollow space. 
And then the air grew suddenly warm ; and there was a glow 
of daylight around ; and although her eyes were rather be- 
wildered, she breathed more freely, and there was an air of 
relief on her face. 

“ I think I will sit down for a moment, Keith,” said she ; 
and then he noticed, with a sudden alarm, that her cheeks 
were rather pale. 


286 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


“ Are you ill ? ” said he, with a quick anxiety in his eyes 
“ Were you frightened ? ” 

“ Oh, no ! ” said she, with a forced cheerfulness, and she 
sat down for a moment on one of the smooth boulders. 
“ You must not think I am such a coward as that. But — the 
chilling atmosphere — the change — made me a little faint.” 

“ Shall I run down to the boat for some wine for you ? I 
know that Janet has brought some claret.” 

“ Oh, not at all ! ” said she — and he saw with a great de- 
light that her color was returning. “ I am quite well now. 
But I will rest for a minute, if you are in no hurry, before 
scrambling down those stones again.” 

He was in no hurry ; on the contrary, he sat down beside 
her and took her hand. 

“You know, Gerty,” said he, “ it will be some time before 
I can learn all that you like and dislike, and what you can 
bear, and what pleases you best ; it will be some time, no 
doubt ; but then, when I have learned, you will find that no 
one will look after you so carefully as I will.” 

“I know you are very kind to me,” said she, in a low 
voice. 

“ And now,” said he, very gently, and even timidly, but 
his firm hand held her languid one with something of a more 
nervous clasp, “ if you would only tell me, Gerty, that on 
such and such a day you would leave the stage altogether, 
and on such and such a day you would let me come to Lon- 
don — and you know the rest— then I would go to my mother, 
and there would be no need of any more secrecy, and instead 
of her treating you merely as a guest she would look on you 
as her daughter, and you might talk with her frankly.” 

She did not at all withdraw the small gloved hand, with 
its fringe of fur at the end of the narrow sleeve. On the con- 
trary, as it lay there in his warm grasp, it was like the small, 
white, furred foot of a ptarmigan, so little and soft and gentle 
was it. 

“ Well, you know, Keith,” she said, with a great kindness 
in the clear eyes, though they were cast down, “ I think the 
secret between you and me should be known to nobody at 
all but ourselves — any more than we can reasonably 
help. And it is a very great step to take ; and you must not 
expect me to be in a hurry, for no good ever came of that. I 
did not think you would have cared so much — I mean, a man 
has so many distractions and occupations of shooting, and 
going away in your yacht and all that — I fancy — I am a little 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


287 

surprised— that you make so much of it. We have a great 
deal to learn yet, Keith ; we don’t know each other very well. 
By and by we may be quite sure that there is no danger ; 
that we understand each other ; that nothing and nobody is 
likely to interfere. But wouldn’t you prefer to be left in the 
meantime just a little bit free — not quite pledged, you know, 
to such a serious thing ” 

He had been listening to these faltering phrases in a kind 
of dazed and pained stupor. It was like the water over- 
whelming a d rowing man. But at last he cried out — and he 
grasped both her hands in the sudden vehemence of the mo- 
ment — 

“ Gerty, you are not drawing back ! You do not despair 
of our being husband and wife ! What is it that you mean ? ” 

“ Oh, Keith ! ” said she, quickly withdrawing one of her 
hands, “ you frighten me when you talk like that ! You do 
not know what you are doing — you have hurt my wrist ! ” 

“ Oh, I hope not ! ” said he. “ Have I hurt your hand, 
Gerty ? — and I would cut off one of mine to save you a 
scratch ! But you will tell me now that you have no fears— 
that you don’t want to draw back ! I would like to take you 
back to Dare, and be able to say to every one, ‘ Do you know 
that this is my wife — that by and by she is coming to Dare — 
and you will all be kind to her for her own sake and for mine.’ 
And if there is anything wrong, Gerty, if there is anything 
you would like altered, I would have it altered. We have a 
rude way of life ; but every one would be kind to you. And 
if the life here is too rough for you, I would go anywhere 
with you that you choose to live. I was looking at the 
houses in Essex. I would go to Essex, or anywhere you 
might wish ; that need not separate us at all. And why are 
you so cold and distant, Gerty ? Has anything happened 
here to displease you ? Have we frightened you by too 
much of the boats and of the sea ? Would you rather live in 
an English county away from the sea? But I would do that 
for you, Gerty — if I was never to see a sea-bird again.” 

And in spite of himself tears rose quickly to his eyes ; for 
she seemed so far away from him, even as he held her hand; 
and his heart would speak at last — or break. 

“ It was all the winter months I was saying to myself, 

‘ Now you will not vex her with too much pleading, for she 
has much trouble with her work ; and that is enough ; and a 
man can bear his own trouble.’ And once or twice, when we 
have been caught in a bad sea, I said to myself, * And what 


283 


MACLEOD OF DARK. 


matter now if the end comes ? — for perhaps that would only 
release her.’ But then again, Gerty, I thought of the time 
you gave me the red rose ; and I said, 1 Surely her heart wil 
not go away from me ; and I have plenty to live for yet ! ” 

Then she looked him frankly in the face, with those beau- 
tiful, clear, sad eyes. 

“ You deserve all the love a woman can give you, Keith , 
for you have a man’s heart. And I wish I could make you 
a fair return for all your courage, and gentleness, and kind 
ness — ” 

“Ah, do not say that,” he said, quickly. “ Do not think 
I am complaining of you, Gerty. It is enough — it is enough 
— I thank God for his mercy to me ; for there never was any 
man so glad as I was when you gave me the red rose. And 
now, sweetheart — now you will tell me that I will put away 
all this trouble and have no more fears ; and there will be 
no need to think of what you are doing far away ; and there 
will be one day that all the people will know — and there will 
be laughing and gladness that day ; and if we will keep the 
pipes away from you, all the people about will have the pipes, 
and there will be a dance and a song that day. Ah, Gerty, 
you must not think harshly of the people about here. They 
have their ways. They would like to please you. But my 
heart is with them ; and a marriage-day would be no mar- 
riage-day to me that I did not spend among my own people 
— my own people.” 

He was talking quite wildly. She had seen him in this 
mood once or twice before, and she was afraid. 

“ But you know, Keith,” said she, gently, and with averted 
eyes, “ a great deal has to be done before then. And a wo- 
man is not so impulsive as a man ; and you must not be an- 
gry if I beg for a little time — ” 

“ And what is time ? ” said he, in the same glad and wild 
way — and now it was his hand holding hers that was trem- 
bling. “ It will all go by in a moment — like a dream — when 
we know that the one splendid day is coming. And I will 
send a haunch to the Dubh Artach men that morning; and I 
will send a haunch to Skerryvore ; and there will not be a 
man in Iona, or Coll, or Mull, that will not have his dram 
that day. And what will you do, Gerty — what will you do ? 
Oh, I will tell you now what you will do on that morning. 
You will take out some sheets of the beautiful, small, scented 
paper ; and you will write to this theatre and to that theatre : 
4 Good-by— perhaps you were useful to me once , and I bear you 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


289 

no ill-will : but — Good-by forever and ever 1' And I will 
have all the children that I took to the Crystal Palace last 
summer given a fine dinner ; and the six boy-pipers will play 
Airs. Macleod of Raasay again ; and they will have a fine reel 
once more. There will be many a one know that you are 
married that day, Gerty. And when is the day to be, Gerty ? 
Cannot you tell me now ? ” 

“There is a drop of rain ! ” she exclaimed; and she sud- 
denly sprang to her feet. The skies were black overhead. 
“ Oh, dear me ! ” she said, “ how thoughtless of us to leave 
pur poor cousin Janet in that open boat, and a shower com- 
ing on ! Please give me your hand now, Keith. And you 
must not take all these things so seriously to heart, you 
know ; or I will say you have not the courage of a feeble 
woman like myself. And do you think the shower will pass 
over ? ” 

“ I do not know,” said he, in a vague way, as if he had 
not quite understood the question ; but he took her hand, and 
in silence guided her down to the rocks, where the boat was 
ready to receive them. 

And now they saw the strange transformation that had 
come over the world. The great troubled sea was all of a dark 
slate-green, with no glad ripples of white, but with long 
squally drifts of black ; and a cold wind was blowing gustily 
in ; and there were hurrying clouds of a leaden hue tearing 
across the sky. As for the islands — where were they ? Ulva 
was visible, to be sure, and Colonsay — both of them a heavy 
and gloomy purple ; and nearer at hand the rock of Errisker 
showed in a wan, gray light between the lowering sky and 
the squally sea ; but Lunga, and Fladda, and Staffa, and 
Iona, and even the long promontory of the Ross of Mull, 
were all hidden away behind the driving mists of rain. 

“ Oh you lazy people ! ” Janet Macleod cried, cheerfully — 
she was not at all frightened by the sudden storm. “ I 
thought the wild beast had killed you in the cave. And shall 
we have luncheon now, Keith, or go back at once ? ” 

He cast an eye towards the westward horizon and the 
threatening sky : Janet noticed at once that he was rather 
pale. 

“ We will have luncheon as they pull us back,” said he, 
in an absent way, as if he was not quite sure of what was hap- 
pening around him. 

He got her into the boat, and then followed. The men, 
not lorry to get away from these jagged rocks, took to theif 


290 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


oars with a will. And then he sat silent and distraught, as 
the two women, muffled up in their cloaks, chatted cheer- 
fully, and partook of the sandwiches and claret that Janet 
had got out of the basket. “ Fhir a bhata” the men sang to 
themselves ; and they passed under the great cliffs, all black 
and thunderous now; and the white surf was springing over 
the rocks. Macleod neither ate nor drank ; but sometimes 
he joined in the conversation in a forced way; and occasion- 
ally he laughed more loudly than the occasion warranted. 

“ Oh yes,” he said, “oh yes, you are becoming a good 
sailor now, Gertrude. You have no longer any fear of the 
water.” 

“ You will become like little Johnny Wickes, Miss White,” 
the cousin Janet said, “the little boy I showed you the other 
day. He has got to be like a duck in his love for the water. 
And, indeed, I should have thought he would have got a 
fright when Keith saved him from drowning ; but no.” 

“ Did you save him from being drowned ? ” she said, turn- 
ing to him. “ And you did not tell me the story ? ” 

“ It was no story,” said he. “ He fell into the water, and 
we picked him up somehow ; ” and then he turned impatient- 
ly to the men, and said some words to them in the Gaelic, 
and there was no more singing of the Farewell to the Boat- 
man after that. 

“ They got home to Castle Dare before the rain came on ; 
though, indeed, it was but a passing shower, and it was suc- 
ceeded by a bright afternoon that deepened into a clear and 
brilliant sunset ;but as they went up through the moist-smel- 
ling larchwood — and as Janet happened to fall behind for a 
moment, to speak to a herdboy who was by the wayside — 
Macleod said to his companion, — 

“ And have you no other word for me, Gertrude ? ” 

Then she said with a very gracious smile, 

“ You must be patient, Keith. Are we not very well off 
as we are? I know a good many people who are not quite 
so well off. And I have no doubt we shall have courage to 
meet whatever good or bad fortune the days may bring 11s ; 
and if it is good, then we shall shake hands over it, just as 
the village people do in an opera.” 

Fine phrases ; though this man, with the dark and hope- 
less look in his eyes, did not seem to gain much gladness 
from them. And she forgot to tell him about that engage- 
ment which was to last till Christmas ; perhaps if she had 
told him just then he would scarcely have heard her. 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


2 9 i 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE NEW TRAGEDY. 

His generous, large nature fought hard to find excuses 
for her. He strove to convince himself that this strange 
coldness, this evasion, this half-repellent attitude, was but a 
form of maiden coyness. It was her natural fear of so great 
a change. It was the result, perhaps, of some last lingering 
lookback to the scene of her artistic triumphs. It did not 
even occur to him as a possibility that this woman with her 
unstable sympathies and her fatally facile imagination, should 
have taken up what was now the very end and aim of his 
life, and have played with the pretty dream until she grew 
tired of the toy, and was ready to let her wandering fancy 
turn to something other and new. 

He dared not even think of that ; but all the same, as he 
stood at this open window alone, an unknown fear had come 
over him. It was a fear altogether vague and undefined ; 
but it seemed to have the power of darkening the daylight 
around him. Here was the very picture he had so often 
desired that she should see — the wind-swept Atlantic ; the 
glad blue skies with their drifting clouds of summer white ; 
the Erisgeir rocks ; the green shores of Ulva ; and Colonsay 
and Gometra and Staffa all shining in the sunlight ; with the 
sea-birds calling, and the waves breaking, and the soft west 
wind stirring the fuchsia-bushes below the windows of Castle 
Dare. And it was all dark now ; and the sea was a lonely 
thing — more lonely than ever it had been even during that 
long winter that he had said was like a grave. 

And she ? — at this moment she was down at the small 
bridge that crossed the burn. She had gone out to seek her 
father ; had found him coming up through the larch-wood, 
and was now accompanying him back. They had rested 
here ; he sitting on the weatherworn parapet of the bridge ; 
she leaning over it, and idly dropping bits of velvet-green 
moss into the whirl of clear brown water below. 

“ I suppose we must be thinking of getting away front 
Cfcstle Dare, Gerty,” said he. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


2)2 

“ I shall not be sorry,” she answered. 

But even Mr. White was somewhat taken aback by the 
cool promptitude of this reply. 

“ Well, you know your own business best,” he said to 
her. “ It is not for me to interfere. I said from the begin- 
ning I would not interfere. But still I wish you would be a 
little more explicit, Gerty, and let one understand what you 
mean — whether, in fact, you do mean, or do not mean, to 
marry Macleod.” 

“ And who said that I proposed not to marry him ? ” said 
she ; but she stiH leaned over the rough stones and looked 
at the water. “ The first thing that would make me decline 
would be the driving me into a corner — the continual goad- 
ing, and reminding me of the duty I had to perform. There 
has been just a little too much of that here ” — and at this 
point she raised herself so that she could regard her father 
when she wished — “ and I really must say that I do not like 
to be taking a holiday with the feeling hanging over you 
that certain things are expected of you every other moment, 
and that you run the risk of being considered a very heart- 
less and ungrateful person unless you do and say certain 
things you would perhaps rather not do and say. I should 
like to be let alone. I hate being goaded. And I certainly 
did not expect that you, too, papa, would try to drive me 
into a corner.” 

She spoke with some little warmth. Mr. White smiled. 

“ I was quite unaware, Gerty,” said he, “ that you were 
suffering this fearful persecution.” 

“ You may laugh, but it is true,” said she, and there was 
a trifle of color in her cheeks. “ The serious interests I am 
supposed to be concerned about ! Such profound topics of 
conversation ! Will the steamer come by the south to-mor- 
row, or round by the north ? The Gometra men have had a 
good take of lobsters yesterday. Will the head-man at the 
Something lighthouse be transferred to some other light 
house ? and how will his wife and family like the change ? 
They are doing very well with a subscription for a bell for 
the Free Church at Iona. The deer have been down at 
John Maclean’s barley again. Would I like to visit the 
weaver at Iona who has such a wonderful turn for mathema- 
tics? and would I like to know the man at Salen who has 
the biographies of all the great men of the time in his 
head?” 

( Miss White had worked herself up to a pretty pitch of 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


2 93 

contemptuous indignation ; her father was almost beginning 
to believe that it was real. 

“ It is all very well for the Macleods to interest them- 
selves with these trumpery little local matters. They play 
the part of grand patron ; the people are proud to honor 
them ; it is a condescension when they remember the name 
of the crofter’s youngest boy. But as for me — when I am 
taken about — well, I do not like being stared at as if they 
thought I was wearing too fine clothes. I don’t like being 
continually placed in a position of inferiority through my ig- 
norance — an old fool of a boatman saying * Bless me ! ’ when 
I have to admit that I don’t know the difference between a 
sole and a flounder. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to 
be continually told. I wish these people would meet me on 
my own ground. I wish the Macleods would begin to talk 
after dinner about the Lord Chamberlain’s interference with 
the politics of burlesque, and then perhaps they would not be 
so glib. I am tired of hearing about John Maclean’s boat, 
and Donald Maclean’s horse, and Sandy Maclean’s refusal to 
pay the road-tax. And as for the drinking of whiskey that 
these sailors get through — well, it seems to me that the ordi- 
nary condition of things is reversed here altogether ; and if 
they ever put up an asylum in Mull, it will be a lunatic asy- 
lum for incurable abstainers.” 

“ Now, now, Gerty ! ” said her father ; but all the same 
he rather liked to see his daughter get on her high horse, for 
she talked with spirit, and it amused him. “You must re- 
member that Macleod looks on this as a holiday-time, and 
perhaps he may be a little lax in his regulations. I have no 
doubt it is because he is so proud to have you on board his 
yacht that he occasionally gives the men an extra glass ; and 
I am sure it does them no harm, for they seem to be as much 
in the water as out of it.” 

She paid no heed to this protest. She was determined to 
give free speech to her sense of wrong, and humiliation, and 
disappointment. 

“ What has been the great event since ever we came here 
— the wildest excitement the island can afford ? ” she said. 
“ the arrival of the pedlar ! A snuffy old man comes into the 
room, with a huge bundle wrapped up in dirty waterproof. 
Then there is a wild clatter of Gaelic. But suddenly, don’t 
you know, there are one or two glances at me ; and the Gae- 
lic stops ; and Duncan or John, or whatever they call him, 
begins to stammer in English, and I am shown coarse stock 


294 


MACLEOD OF DARE, 


ings, and bundles of wool, and drugget petticoats, and cotton 
handkerchiefs. And then Miss Macleod buys a number of 
things which I know she does not want ; and I am looked on 
as a strange creature because I do not purchase a bundle of 
wool or a pair of stockings fit for a farmer. The Autolyeus 
of Mull is not impressive, pappy. Oh, but I forgot the dra- 
matic surprise — that also was to be an event, I have no doubt. 
I was suddenly introduced to a child dressed in a kilt ; and 
I was to speak to him ; and I suppose I was to be profoundly 
moved when I heard him speak to me in my own tongue in 
this out of the world place. My own tongue ! The horrid 
little wretch has not an h.” 

“ Well, there’s no pleasing you, Gerty,” said he. 

“ I don’t want to be pleased ; I want to be let alone,” 
said she. 

But she said this with just a little too much sharpness ; for 
her father was, after all, a human being ; and it did seem to 
him to be too bad that he should be taunted in this fashion, 
when he had done his best to preserve a wholly neutral atti- 
tude. 

“ Let me tell you this, madam,” said he, in a playful 
manner, but with some decision in his tone, “ that you may 
live to have the pride taken out of you. You have had a good 
deal of flattery and spoiling ; and you may find out you have 
been expecting too much. As for these Macleods here, I will 
say this — although I came here very much against my own 
inclination — that I defy any one to have been more kind, and 
courteous, and attentive than they have been to you. I don’t 
care. It is not my business, as I tell you. But I must say, 
Gerty, that when you make a string of complaints as the only 
return for all their hospitality — their excessive and almost 
burdensome hospitality — I think that even I am bound to say 
a word. You forget how you come here. You, a perfect 
stranger, come here as engaged to marry the old lady’s only 
son — to dispossess her — very probably to make impossible a 
match that she had set her heart on. And both she and her 
niece — you understand what I mean — instead of being cold, 
or at least formal, to you, seem to me to think of nothing 
from morning till night but how to surround you with kind- 
ness, in a way that Englishwomen would never think of. 
And this you call persecution ; and you are vexed with them 
because they won’t talk to you about theatres — why, bless my 
soul, how long it is since you were yourself talking about 
theatres as if the very word choked you ? ” 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


2 95 

“ Well, at least, pappy, I never thought you would turn 
against me,” said she, as she put her head partly aside, and 
made a mouth as if she were about to cry ; “ and when mam- 
ma made you promise to look after Carry and me, 1 am sure 
she never thought — ” 

Now this was too much for Mr. White. In the small eyes 
behind the big gold spectacles there was a quick flash of 
fire. 

“ Don’t be a fool, Gerty ! ” said he, in downright anger. 
“ You know it is no use your trying to humbug me. If you 
think the ways of this house are too poor and mean for your 
grand notions of state — if you think he has not enough 
money, and you are not likely to have fine dinners and enter- 
tainments for your friends — if you are determined to break 
off the match — why, then do it 1 but, I tell you, don’t try to 
humbug me ! ” 

Miss White’s pathetic attitude suddenly vanished. She 
drew herself up with much dignity and composure, and said, 

“ At all events, sir, I have been taught my duty to you ; 
and I think it better not to answer you.” 

With that she moved off toward the house ; and Mr. 
White, taking to whistling, began to do as she had been do- 
ing — idly throwing bits of moss into the rushing burn. After 
all, it was none of his business. 

But that evening, some little time before dinner, it was 
proposed they should go for a stroll down to the shore ; and 
then it was that Miss White thought she would seize the oc- 
casion to let Macleod know of her arrangements for the com- 
ing autumn and winter. Ordinarily, on such excursions, she 
managed to walk with Janet Macleod — the old lady of Castle 
Dare seldom joined them — leaving Macleod to follow with 
her father ; but this time she so managed it that Macleod 
and she left the house together. Was he greatly overjoyed ? 
There was a constrained and anxious look on his face that 
had been there too much of late. 

“ I suppose Oscar is more at home here than in Bury 
Street, St. James’s ? ” said she, as the handsome collie went 
down the path before them. 

“ No doubt,” said he, absently : he was not thinking of 
any collie. 

“ What beautiful weather we are having,” said she, to this 
silent companion. “ It is always changing, but always beau- 
tiful. There is only one other aspect I should like to see — 

tie snow time.” 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


296 

“ We have not much snow here,” said he- “ It seldom 
lies in the winter.” 

This was a strange conversation for two engaged lovers 
it was not much more interesting than their talk — how many 
ages ago ? — at Charing Cross station. But then, when she 
had said to him, “ Ought we to take tickets ? ” she had looked 
into his face with those appealing, innocent, beautiful eyes. 
Now her eyes never met his. She was afraid. 

She managed to lead up to her announcement skilfully 
enough. By the time they reached the shore an extraordi- 
narily beautiful sunset was shining over the sea and the land, 
something so bewildering and wonderful that thay all four 
stopped to look at it. The Atlantic was a broad expanse of 
the palest and most brilliant green, with the pathway of the 
sun a flashing line of gold coming right across until it met 
the rocks, and there was a jet black against the glow. Then 
the distant islands of Colonsay, and Staffa, and Lunga, and 
Fladda lying on this shining green sea, appeared to be of a 
perfectly transparent bronze ; while nearer at hand the long 
ranges of cliffs were becoming a pale rose-red under the 
darkening blue-gray sky. It was a blaze of color such as she 
had never even dreamed of as being possible in nature ; noth- 
ing she had as yet seen in these northern latitudes had at 
all approached it. And as she stood there, and looked at 
those transparent islands of bronze on the green sea, she said 
to him, — 

“ Do you know, Keith, this is not at all like the place I 
had imagined as the scene of the gloomy stories you used to 
tell me about the revenges of the clans. I have been fright- 
ened once or twice since I came here, no doubt, by the wild 
sea, and the darkness of the cathedral, and so forth ; but 
the longer I stay the less I see to suggest those awful stories. 
How could you associate such an evening as this with a fright- 
ful tragedy ? Do you think those people ever existed who 
were supposed to have suffocated, or slaughtered, or starved 
to death any one who opposed their wishes ? ” 

“ And I do not suppose they troubled themselves much 
about fine sunsets,” said he. “ That was not what they had 
to think about in those dayj~” 

“ Perhaps not,” said she, lightly ; “ but, you know, I had 
expected to find a place from which I could gain some inspi- 
ration for tragedy — for I should like to try, once for all — if 
I should have to give up the stage — whether I had the stuff 
of a tragic actress in me. And, you know, in that case, I 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


2 97 

ought to dress in black velvet, and carry a taper through 
dungeons, and get accustomed to storms, and gloom, and 
thunder and lightning.” 

“ We have no appliances here for the education of ana 
actress — I am very sorry,” said he. 

“ Now, Keith, that is hardly fair,” said she, with a smile. 
w You know it is only a trial. And you saw what they said 
ol my Juliet, Oh, did I tell you about the new tragedy that 
is coming out ? ” 

“ No, I do not think you did,” said he 

“ Ah, well, it is a great secret as yet ; but there is no rea- 
son why you should not hear of it.” 

“ I am not anxious to hear of it,” said he, without any 
rudeness. 

“ But it concerns me,” she said, “ and so I must tell you. 
It is written by a brother of Mr. Lemuel, the artist I have 
often spoken to you about. He is by profession an architect ; 
but if this play should turn out to be as fine as some people 
say it is, he ought to take to dramatic writing. In fact, all 
the Lemuels — there are three brothers of them, you know- 
are like Michael Angelo and Leonardo — artists to the finger- 
tips, in every direction — poets, painters, sculptors, and all the 
rest of it. And I do think I ought to feel flattered by their 
choice in asking me to play the heroine ; for so much de- 
pends on the choice of the actress ” 

“ And you are still to act ? ” said he, quickly, though he 
spoke in a low voice, so that those behind should not hear. 

“ Surely I explained to you ? ” said she, in a pleasant 
manner. “ After all, lifelong habits are not so easily cast 
aside ; and I knew you would be generous, and bear with me 
a little bit, Keith.” 

He turned to her. The glow of the sunset caught his face. 
There was a strange, hopeless sadness in his eyes. 

“ Generous to you ? ” said he. “ You know I would give 
you my life if that would serve you. But this is worse than 
taking my life from me.” 

“ Keith, Keith ! ” said she, in gentle protest, “ I don’t 
know what you mean. You should not take things so seri- 
ously. What is it, after all ? It was as an actress that you 
knew me first. What is the difference of a few months more 
or less ? If I had nof been an actress, you would never have 
known me — do you recollect that ? By the way, has Majoi 
Stuart’s wife got a piano ? ” 


298 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


He turned and stared at her for a second, in a bewi.deied 
way. 

“ Oh yes,” said he, with a laugh, “ Mrs. Stuart has got a 
piano ; she has got a very good piano. And what is the song 
you would sing now, sweetheart ? Shall we finish up and 
have done with it, with a song at the end ? That is the way 
in the theatre, you know — a dance and a song as the people 
go. And what shall our song be now? There was one tha. 
Norman Ogilvie used to sing.” 

“ I don’t know why you should talk to me like that, 
Keith,” said she, though she seemed somewhat frightened by 
this fierce gayety. “I was going to tell you that if Mrs. 
Stuart had a piano I would very gladly sing one or two songs 
for your mother and Miss Macleod when we went over there 
to-morrow. You have frequently asked me. Indeed, I have 
brought with me the very songs I sung to you the first time I 
saw you— at Mrs. Ross’s.” 

Instantly his memory flew back to that day— to the hushed 
little room over the sunlit gardens — to the beautiful, gentle, 
sensitive girl who seemed to have so strange an interest in 
the Highlands— to the wonderful thrill that went through 
him when she began to sing with an exquisite pathos, “ A 
wee bird cam’ to our ha’ door,” and to the prouder enthusiasm 
that stirred him when she sang, “I’ll to Lochiel, and 
Appin, and kneel to them ! ” These were fine, and tender, 
and proud songs. There was no gloom about them — nothing 
about a grave, and the dark winter-time, and a faithless lost 
love. This song of Norman Ogilvie’s that he had gayly pro- 
posed they should sing now? What had Major Stuart, or his 
wife, or any one in Mull to do with “ Death’s black wine ? ” 

“ I meant to tell you, Keith,” said she, somewhat ner- 
vously, “ that I had signed an engagement to remain at the 
Piccadilly Theatre till Christmas next. I knew you wouldn’t 
mind — I mean, you would be considerate, and you would un- 
derstand how difficult it is for one to break away all at once 
from one’s old associations. And then, you know, Keith,” 
said she, shyly, “ though you may not like the theatre, you 
ought to be proud of my success, as even my friends and ac- 
quaintances are. And as they are all anxious to see me make 
another appearance in tragedy, I really should like to try it ; 
so that when my portrait appears in the Academy next year, 
people may not be saying, ‘ Look at the impertinence of that 
girl appearing as a tragic actress when she can do nothing 
beyond the familiar modern comedy 1 ’ I should have told 


MACLEOD OF DA EE 


2 99 

you all about it before, Keith, but I know you hate to hear 
any talk about the theatre ; and I sha’n’t bore you agair, you 
may depend on that. Isn’t it time to go back now ? See 1 
the rose-color is away from Ulva now ; it is quite a dark 
purple.” 

He turned in silence and led the way back. Behind them 
he could faintly hear Mr. White discoursing to Janet Mac- 
leod about the manner in which the old artists mixed their 
own pigments. 

Then Macleodsaid, with a great gentleness and restraint, 

“ And when you go away from here, Gertude, I suppose 
.! must say good-by to you ; and no one knows when we 
shall see each other again. You are returning to the theatre. 
If that is your wish, I would not try to thwart it. You 
know best what is the highest prize the world can give you. 
And how can I warn you against failure and disappointment ? 
I know you will be successful. I know the people will ap- 
plaud you, and your head will be filled with their praises. 
You are going forward to a new triumph, Gerty ; and the 
first step you will take will be on my heart.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

AN UNDERSTANDING. 

“ Pappy dear,” said Miss White to her father, in a playful 
way, although it was a serious sort of playfulness, “ I have 
a vague feeling that there is a little too much electricity in 
the atmosphere of this place just at present. I am afraid 
there may be an explosion ; and you know my nerves can’t 
stand much of a shock. I should be glad to get away.” 

By this time she had quite made up that little difference 
with her father — she did not choose to be left alone at a 
somewhat awkward crisis. She had told him she was sure 
he had not meant what he said about her ; and she had ex- 
pressed her sorrow for having provoked him ; and there an 
end. And if Mr. White had been driven by his anger to be 
for the moment the ally of Macleod, he was not disinclined 
to take the other side now and let Miss White have her own 
will. The vast amount of training he had bestowed on her 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


3 00 

through many long years was not to be thrown awav after 
all. 

“ 1 told him last night,” said she, “ of my having signed 
an engagement till Christmas next.” 

“ Oh, indeed ! ” said her father, quickly ; looking at her 
over his spectacles. 

“ Yes,” said she, thoughtfully, “ and he was not so dis* 
turbed or angry as I had expected. Not at all. He was 
very kind about it. But I don’t understand him.” 

“ What do you not understand ? ” 

“ He has grown so strange of late — so sombre. Once, 
you know, he was the lightest-hearted young man — enjoying 
every minute of his life, you know — and really, pappy, I 
think—” 

And here Miss White stopped. 

“ At all events,” said she, quickly, “ I want to be in a less 
dangerously excited atmosphere, where I can sit down and 
consider matters calmly. It was much better when he and 
I corresponded, then we could fairly learn what each other 
thought. Now I am almost afraid of him — I mean, I am 
afraid to ask him a question. I have to keep out of his way. 
And if it comes to that, pappy, you know, I feel now as if I 
was called on to act a part from morning till night, whereas 
I was always assured that if I left the stage and married him 
it was to be my natural self, and I should have no more need 
to pose and sham. However, that is an old quarrel between 
you and me, pappy, and we will put it aside. What’s more 
to the purpose is this — it was half understood that when we 
left Castle Dare he was to come with us through at least a 
part, of the Highlands.” 

“ There was a talk of it.” 

“ Don’t you think,” said Miss White with some little 
hesitation, and with her eyes cast down — “ don’t you think 
that would be a little inconvenient ? ” 

“ I should say that was for you to decide,” he answered 
somewhat coldly ; for it was too bad that she should be con- 
tinually asking his advice and then openly disregarding it. 

“ I should think it would be a little uncomfortable,” she 
said, demurely. “ I fancy he has taken that engagement till 
Christmas a little more to heart than he chooses to reveal — 
that is natural — I knew it would be a disappointment ; but 
then, you know, pappy, the temptation was very great, and 
I had almost promised the Lemuels to do what I could for 
the piece. And if I am to give up the stage, wouldn’t V be 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


301 


fine to wind up with a blaze of fireworks to astonish the pub- 
lic ?* 

'* Are you so certain you will astonish the public ? ” her 
father said. 

“ 1 have the courage to try,” she answered, readily. 
“ And you are not going to throw cold water on my endeav- 
ors, are you, pappy ? Well, as I was saying, it is perhaps nat- 
ural for Sir Keith Macleod to feel a bit annoyed ; and I am 
afraid if he went travelling with us, we should be continually 
skating on the edge of a quarrel. Besides, to tell you the 
truth, pappy— with all his kindness and gentleness, there is 
sometimes about him a sort of intensity that I scarcely like 
— it makes me afraid of him. If it were on the stage, I 
should say it was a splendid piece of acting — of the sup- 
pressed vehement kind, you know ; but really — during a holi- 
day-time, when one naturally wishes to enjoy the fine weather 
and gather strength for one’s work — well, I do think he 
ought not to come with us, pappy.” 

“ Very well ; you can hint as much without being rude.” 

“ I was thinking,” said she, “ of the Mr. and Mrs. Bald- 
win who were in that Newcastle company, and who went to 
Aberdeen. Do you remember them, pappy ? ” 

“ The low comedian, you mean ? ” 

“ Yes. Well, at all events they would be glad to see us. 
And so — don’t you think ? — we could let Macleod understand 
that we were going to see some friends in the North ? Then 
he would not think of coming with rs.” 

“ The representation would scarcely be justifiable,” ob- 
served Mr. White, with a profound air, “ in ordinary circum- 
stances. But, as you say, it would be neither for his comfort 
nor for yours that he should go with us.” 

“ Comfort ! ” she exclaimed. “ Much comfort I have had 
since I came here ! Comfort I call quiet, and being let alone. 
Another fortnight at this place would give me brain fever— 
your life continually in danger either on the sea or by the 
cliffs — your feelings supposed to be always up at passion 
pitch — it is all a whirl of secret or declared emotions that 
don’t give you a moment’s rest. Oh, pappy, won’t it be nice 
to have a day or two’s quiet in our own home, with Carry and 
Marie ? And you know Mr. Lemuel will be in town all the 
summer and winter. The material for his work he finds 
within himself. He doesn’t need to scamper off like the rest 
of them to hunt out picturesque peasants and studies of water- 
fa] ] s __trotting about the country with a note-book in hand — ” 


302 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


“ Gerty, Gerty,” said her father, with a smile, “ your m> 
tions are unformed on that subject. What have I told you 
often ? — that the artist is only a reporter. Whether he uses 
the pencil, or the pen, or his own face and voice, to express the 
highest thoughts and emotions of which he is conscious, he 
is only a reporter — a penny-a-liner whose words are wiitten 
ill fire. And you — don’t you carry your note-book too ? ” 

“ I was not comparing myself with an artist like Mr. Lem- 
uel pappy. No, no. Of course I have to keep my eyes 
open, and pick up things that may be useful. His work is 
the work of intense spiritual contemplation — dt is inspira- 
tion — ” 

“ No doubt,” the father said ; “ the inspiration of Botti- 
celli.” 

“ Papa ! ” 

Mr. White chuckled to himself. He was not given to 
joking : an epigram was not in consonance with his high sen- 
tentiousness. But instantly he resumed his solemn deport- 
ment. 

“ A picture is as much a part of the world as a human 
face : why should I not take my inspiration from a picture 
as well as from a human face ? ” 

“ You mean to say he is only a copyist — a plagiarist 1 ” 
she said, with some indignation. 

“ Not at all,” said he. “ All artists have their methods 
founded more or less on the methods of those who have gone 
before them. You don’t expect an artist to discover for him- 
self an entirely new principle of art, any more than you ex- 
pect him to paint in pigments of his own invention. Mr. 
Lemuel has been a diligent student of Botticelli — that is all.” 

This strange talk amidst the awful loneliness and grand- 
eur of Glen-Sloich ! They were idly walking along the rough 
road : fai above them rose the giant slopes of the mountains 
retreating into heavy masses of cloud that were moved by 
the currents of the morning wind. It was a gray day ; and 
the Iresh-water lake here was of a leaden hue, and the browns 
and greens of the mountain-side were dark and intense. 
There was no sign of human life or habitation; there was 
no bird singing ; the deer was far away in the unknown val- 
leys above them, hidden by the mystic cloud phantoms. 
There was an odor of sweet-gale in the air. The only sound 
was the murmuring of the streams that were pouring down 
through these vast solitudes to the sea. 

And now they reached a spot from whence, on turning. 


MACLEOD OF DARE, 


3<>3 

they caught sight of the broad plain of the Atlantic— all 
wind-swept and white. And the sky was dark and low down, 
though at one place the clouds had parted, and there was a 
glimmer of blue as narrow and keen as the edge of a knife. 
But there were showers about ; for Iona was invisible, and 
Slaffa was faintly gray through the passing rain ; and Ulva 
was almost black as the storm approached in its glocm. 
Botticelli ! Those men now in that small lugsailed beat — 
far away off the point of Gometra — a tiny dark thing, ap- 
parently lost every second or so amidst the white Atlantic 
surge, and wrestling hard with the driving wind and sea to 
reach the thundering and foam-filled caverns of Staffa— they 
were not thinking much of Botticelli. Keith Macleod was 
in that boat. The evening before Miss White had expressed 
some light wish about some trifle or other, but had laughingly 
said that she must wait till she got back to the region of 
shops. Unknown to her, Macleod had set off to intercept 
the steamer : and he would go on board and get hold of the 
steward ; and would the steward be so kind as to hunt about 
in Oban to see if that trifle could not be found ? Macleod 
would not intrust so important a message to any one else : 
he would himself go out to meet the Pioneer. 

“ The sky is becoming very dark,” Mr. White said ; u we 
had better go back, Gerty.” 

But before they had gone far the first heavy drops were 
beginning to fall, and they were glad to run for refuge to 
some great gray «boulders which lay in the moist moorland 
at the foot of the mountain-slopes. In the lee of these rocks 
they were in comparative safety ; and they waited patiently 
until the gale of wind and rain should pass over. And what 
were these strange objects that appeared in the gray mists 
far along the valley ? She touched her father’s arm — she did 
not speak ; it was her first sight of a herd of red-deer ; and 
as the deer had doubtless been startled by a shepherd or his 
dog, they were making across the glen at a good speed. 
First came the hinds, running almost in Indian file, and then, 
with a longer stride, came one or two stags, their antlered 
heads high in the air, as though they were listening for 
sounds behind them and sniffing the wind in front of them 
at the same time. But so far away were they that they were 
only blurred objects passing through the rain-mists; they 
passed across like swift ghosts ; there was no sound 
heard at all. And then the rain ceased, and the air grew 
warm around them. They came out from the shadow of th« 


MACLEOD OF DA tE. 


3°4 

rock — behold ! a blaze of hot sun on the moist moors, with 
a sudden odor of bracken, and young heather, and sweet-gale 
all about them. And the sandy road quickly grew cry again ; 
and the heavens opened ; and there was a flood cf sunlight 
falling on that rushing and breezy Atlantic. They walked 
back to Dare. 

“ Tuesday, then, shall we say, pappy ? ** she remarked, 
just before entering. 

“ Very well.” 

“ And we are going to see some friends in Aberdeen.” 

“ Very well.” 

After this Miss White became a great deal more cheerful ; 
and she was very complaisant to them all at luncheon. And 
quite by accident she asked Macleod, who had returned by 
this time, whether they talked Scotch in Aberdeen. 

“ Because, you know,” said she, “ one should always be 
learning on one’s travels ; and many a time I have heard 
people disputing about the pronunciation of the Scotch ; and 
one ought to be able to read Bums with a proper accent. 
Now, you have no Scotch at all here ; you don’t say ‘ my 
dawtie,’ and * ben the hoose,’ and ‘ ’twixt the gloaming and 
the mirk.’ ” 

“ Oh no,” said he, “ we have none of the Scotch at all, 
except among those who have been for a time to Glasgow or 
Greenock ; and our own language, the Gaelic, is unknown to 
strangers ; and our way of speaking English — that is only 
made a thing to laugh at. And yet I do not laugh at all at 
the blunders of our poor people in a strange tongue. You 
may laugh at us for our way of speaking English — the ac- 
cent of it ; but it is not fair to laugh at the poor people when 
they will be making mistakes among the verbs. Did you 
ever hear of the poor Highlander who was asked how he had 
been employing himself, and, after a long time, he said, ‘ I 
wass for two years a herring fish and I wass for four 
months or three months a broke stone on the road ? ’ 
Perhaps the Highlanders are not very clever at picking, 
up another language ; but all the same that did not 
prevent their going to all parts of the world and fighting the 
battles of other people. And do you know that in Canada 
there are descendants of the Highlanders who went there in 
the last century ; and they are proud of their name and their 
history ; and they have swords that were used at Falkirk and 
Culloden : but these Macnabs and Mackays, and Camerons, 
they speak only French ! But I think, if they have High* 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


305 

land blood in them, and if they were to hear the ‘ Failte 
Pkrionsa /’ played on the pipes, they would recognize that 
language. And why were you asking about Aberdeen ?” 

“ That is not a Highland but a Scotch way of answering 
my question,” said she, smiling. 

“*Oh, I beg your pardon,” said he, hastily; “but indeed 
I ha\e never been to Aberdeen, and I do not know what it i& 
ihey speak there ; but I should say it was likely to be a mix- 
ture of Scotch and English, such as all the big towns have. 
I do not think it is a Highland place, like Inverness.” 

“Now I will answer your question,” said she. “ I asked 
you because papa and I propose to go there before returning 
to England.” How quickly the light fell from his face ! 
“ The fact is, we have some friends there.” 

There was silence. They all felt that it was for Macleod 
to speak ; and they may have been guessing as to what was 
passing in his mind. But to their surprise he said, in almost 
a gay fashion, — 

“ Ah, well, you know they accuse us Highland folk of 
being rather too importunate as hosts ; but we will try not to 
harass you ; and if you have friends in Aberdeen, it would 
not be fair to beg of you to leave them aside this time. But 
surely you are not thinking of going to Aberdeen yet, when 
it is many a place you have yet to see about here ? I was 
to take you in the Umpire to Skye ; and we had many a talk 
about the Lewis, too.” 

“ Thank you very much,” said she, demurely. “ I am 
sure you have been most kind to us ; but — the fact is — I 
think we must leave on Tuesday.” 

“ On Tuesday ! ” said he ; but it was only for an instant 
that he winced. Again he roused himself — for he was talk- 
ing in the presence of his mother and the cousin Janet — 
“ You have not been quite fair to us,” said he cheerfully; 
“ you have not given yourself time to make our acquaintance. 
Are you determined to go away as you came — the Fionaghal ? 
But then, you know, Fionaghal came and stayed among us 
before she began to write her songs about the Western Isles ; 
and the next time you come that must be for a longer time, 
and you will get to know us all better, and we will not 
frighten you any more by taking you on the sea at night or 
into the cathedral ruins. Ah! ” said he, with a smile light- 
ing up his face — but it was a constrained gayety altogether. 
<( 33o I know now why you are hurrying away so soon ? You 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


306 

want to avoid that trip in the Umpire to the island where I 
used to think I would like my grave to be — 

“ Keith ! ” said Lady Macleod, with a frown. “ How 
can you repeat that nonsense ! Miss White will think you 
are mad ! ” 

* It was only an old fancy, mother,” said he, gently. 
1 And we were thinking of going out to one of the Treshnish 
islands, anyway. Surely it is a harmless thing that a man 
should choose out the place of his own grave, so long as he 
does not want to be put into it too soon.” 

“It will be time for 'you to speak of such things thirty 
years hence,” said Lady Macleod. 

“Thirty years is a long time,” said he; and then he 
added, lightly, “but if we do not go out to the Treshnish 
islands, we must go somewhere else before the Tuesday ; 
and would you go round to Loch Sunart now ? or shall we 
drive you to-morrow to see Glen More and Loch Buy ? And 
you must not leave Mull without visting our beautiful town 
— and capital — that is Tobermory.” 

Every one was quite surprised and pleased to find Mac- 
leod taking the sudden departure of his sweetheart in this 
c ashion ; it showed that he had abundant confidence in the 
future. And if Miss White had her own thoughts about the 
matter, it was at all events satisfactory to her that outwardly 
Macleod and she were parting on good terms. 

But that evening he happened to find her alone for a few 
moments ; and all the forced cheerfulness had left his eyes, 
and there was a dark look there — of hopeless anxiety and 
pain. 

“ I do not wish to force you, Gerty — to persecute you,” 
said he. “You are our guest. But before you go away, 
cannot you give me one definite word of promise and hope 
— only one word ? ” 

“ I am quite sure you don’t want to persecute me, Keith,” 
said she, “ but you should remember there is a long time of 
waiting before us, and there will be plenty of opportunity for 
explaining and arranging everything when we have leisure 
to write — ” 

“ To write ! ” he exclaimed. “ But I am coming to see 
you, Gerty ! Do you think I could go through another series 
of long months, with only those letters, and letters, and 
letters to break one’s heart over ? I could not do it again, 
Gerty. And when you have visited your friends in Aberdeen 
I am coming to London.” 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


3°7 

“ Why, Keith, there is the shooting ! ” 

“ I do not think I shall try the shooting this year — it is 
an anxiety — I cannot have patience with it. I am coming to 
London, Gerty.” 

“ Oh, very well, Keith,” said she, with an affectation of 
cheerful content; “ then there is no use in our taking a sol- 
emn good-by just now — is there? You know how I hate 
scenes. And we shall part very good friends, shall we noi ? 
And when you come to London, we shall make up all our 
little differences, and have everything on a clear understand- 
ing. Is it a bargain ? Here comes your cousin Janet — now 
show her that we are good friends, Keith ! And, for good- 
ness’ sake, don’t say that you mean to give up your shooting 
this year, or she will wonder what I have made of you. Give 
up your shooting ! Why, a woman would as soon give up 
her right of being incomprehensible and whimsical and ca- 
pricious — her right of teasing people, as I very much fear I 
have been teasing you, Keith. But it will be all set right 
when you come to London.” 

And from that moment to the moment of her departure 
Miss White seemed to breathe more freely, and she took less 
care to avoid Keith Macleod in her daily walks and ways. 
There was at last quite a good understanding between them, 
as the people around imagined. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 

AFRAID. 

But the very first thing she did on reaching home again 
was to write to Macleod begging him to postpone his visit 
to London. What was the use ? The company of which 
she formed a part was most probably going on an autumn 
tour ; she was personally very busy. Surely it would not 
much interest him to be present at the production of a new 
piece in Liverpool ? 

And then she pointed out to him that, as she had her du 
ties and occupations, so ought he to have. It was monstrous 
his thought of foregoing the shooting that year. Why, if 
he wanted some additional motive, what did he say to pre 


MACLEOD OF DARE 


308 

serving as much grouse-plumage as would trim a cloak for 
her ? It was a great pity that the skins of so beautiful a 
bird should be thrown away. And she desired him to pre- 
sent her kind regards to Lady Macleod and to Miss Mac* 
leod ; and to thank them both for their great kindness. 

Immediately after writing that letter Miss White seemed 
to grow very light-hearted indeed, and she laughed and 
chatted with Carry, and was exceedingly affectionate towaid 
her sister. 

“ And what do you think of your own home now, Gerty ? ” 
said Miss Carry, who had been making some small experi- 
ments in arrangement. 

“ You mean, after my being among the savages ? ” said 
she. “ Ah, it is too true, Carry. I have seen them in their 
war-paint ; and I have shuddered at their spears ; and I have 
made voyages in their canoes. But it is worth while going 
anywhere and doing anything in order to come back and ex- 
perience such a sense of relief and quiet. Oh, what a delicious 
cushion ! where did you get it, Carry ? ” 

She sank .back in the rocking-chair out on this shaded 
veranda. It was the slumbering noontide of a July day 
the foliage above and about the Regent’s Canal hung mo 
tionless in the still sunlight ; and there was a perfume of 
roses in the air. Here, at last, was repose. She had said 
that her notion of happiness was to be let alone ; and — now 
that she had despatched that forbidding letter — she would be 
able to enjoy a quiet and languor free from care. 

“ Aha, Gerty, don’t you know ? ” said the younger sister. 
“ Well, I suppose, you poor creature, you don’t know — you 
have been among the tigers and crocodiles so long. That 
cushion is a present from Mr. Lemuel to me — to me, mind, 
not to you — and he brought it all the way from Damascus 
some years ago. Oh, Gerty, if I was only three years older, 
shouldn’t I like to be your rival, and have a fight with you 
for him ! ” 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” said the elder sister, 
sharply. 

“Oh, don’t you! Poor, innocent thing ! Well, I am not 
going to quarrel with you this time, for at last you are show- 
ing some sense. How you ever could have thought of Mr. 
Howson, or Mr. Brook, or you know whom — I never could 
imagine ; but here is some one now whom people have heard 
of — some one with fame like yourself — who will understand 
you. Oh Gerty, hasn’t he lovely eyes ? ” 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


3°9 


“ Like a gazelle,” said the other. “ You know what Mr. 
said — that he never met the appealing look of Mr. Lem- 
uel’s eyes without feeling in his pockets for a biscuit.” 

“ He wouldn’t say anything like that about you, Gerty/ 
Carry said reproachfully. 

“ Who wouldn’t ? ” 

“ Mr. Lemuel.” 

“ Oh, Carry, don’t you understand that I am so glad to 
be allowed to talk nonsense? I have been all strung up 
lately — like the string of a violin. Everything au grand serieux 
I want to be idle, and to chat, and to talk nonsense. Where 
did you get that bunch of stephanotis ? ” 

“ Mr. Lemuel brought it last evening. He knew you were 
coming home to-day. Oh Gerty, do you know I have seen 
your portrait, though it isn’t finished yet ; and you look — you 
look like an inspired prophetess. I never saw anything so 
lovely ! ” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Miss White, with a smile ; but she was 
pleased. 

“ When the public see that, they will know what you are 
really like, Gerty — instead of buying your photograph in a 
shop from a collection of ballet-dancers and circus women. 
That is where you ought to be — in the Royal Academy : not 
in a shop-window with any mountebank. Oh, Gerty, do you 
know who is your latest rival in the stationers’ windows ? 
The woman who dresses herself as a mermaid and swims in 
a transparent tank, below water — Fin-fin they call her. I 
suppose you have not been reading the newspapers ? ” 

“ Not much.” 

“ There is a fine collection for you upstairs. And there 
is an article ubout you in the Islington Young Men's Improve- 
ment Association. It is signed Trismegistus. Oh, it is beau- 
tiful, Gerty — quite full of poetry ! It says you are an en- 
chantress striking the rockiest heart, and a well of pure emo- 
tion springs up. It says you have the beauty of Mrs. S id- 
dons and the genius of Rachel.” 

“ Dear me ! ” 

“ Ah, you don’t half believe in yourself, Gerty,” said the 
younger sister, with a critical air. “It is the weak point 
about you. You depreciate yourself, and you make light of 
other people’s belief in you. However, you can’t go against 
your own genius. That is too strong for you. As soon as you 
get on the stage, then you forget to laugh at yourself.” 


310 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


“ Really, Carry, has papa been giving you a lecture about 
me ? ” 

“ Oh, laugh away ? but you know it is true. And a woman 

like you — you were going to throw yourself away on a ” 

“ Carry 1 There are some things that are better not 
talked about, s^d Gertrude White, curtly, as she rose and 
went indoors. 

Miss White betook herself to her professional and dome* 
tic duties with much alacrity and content, for she believed 
that by her skill as a letter-writer she could easily ward off 
the importunities of her too passionate lover. It is true that 
at times, and in despite of her playful evasion, she was visited 
by a strange dread. However far away, the cry of a strong 
man in his agony had something terrible in it. And what 
was this he wrote to her in simple and calm words ? — 

“ Are our paths diverging, Gerty ? and if that is so, what 
will be the end of it for me and for you ? Are you going 
away from me ? After all that has passed, are we to be sep- 
arated in the future, and you will go one way and I must go 
the other way, with all the world between us, so that I shall 
never see you again ? Why will you not speak ? You hin 4 
of lingering doubts and hesitations. Why have you not the 
courage to be true to yourself — to be true to your woman’s 
heart — to take your life in your own hands, and shape it so 
that it shall be worthy of you ? ” 

Well, she did speak in answer to this piteous prayer. 
She was a skilful letter-writer : 

“It may seem very ungrateful in an actress, you know, 
dear Keith, to contest the truth of anything said by Shak- 
speare ; but I don’t think, with all humility, there ever was 
so much nonsense put into so small a space as there is in 
these lines that everybody quotes at your head — 

“ To thine own self be true 
And it must follow, as the night the day 
Thou canst not then be false to any man." 

‘ Be true to yourself,’ people say to you. But surely every 
one who is conscious of failings, and deceitfulness, and un 
worthy instincts, would rather try to be a little better than 
himself ? Where else would there be any improvement, in 
an individual or in society ? You have to fight against your 
self, instead of blindly yielding to your wish of the moment, 

I know I, for one, should not like to trust myself. I wish to 
be better than I am — to be other than I am — and I naturall) 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


31 * 

look around for help and guidance. Then you find people 
recommending you absolutely diverse ways life, and with 
all show of authority and reason, too ; and in such an impor- 
tant matter ought not one to consider before making a final 
choice ? ” 

Miss White’s studies in mental and moral science, as will 
readily be perceived, had not been of a profound character. 
But he did not stay to detect the obvious fallacy of her argu- 
ment. It was all a maze of words to him. The drowning man 
does not hear questions addressed to him. He only knows 
that the waters are closing over him, and there is no arm 
stretched out to save. 

“ I do not know myself for two minutes together,” she 
wrote. “ What is my present mood, for example ? Why, one 
of absolute and ungovernable hatred — hatred of the woman 
who would take my place if I were to retire from the stage. 
I have been thinking of it all the morning — picturing myself 
as an unknown nonentity, vanished from the eyes of the pub- 
lic, in a social grave. And I have to listen to people praising 
the new actress ; and I have to read columns about her in 
the papers ; and I am unable to say, ‘ Why, all that and more 
was written and said about me ! ’ What has an actress to 
show for herself if once she leaves the stage ? People forget 
her the next day ; no record is kept of her triumphs. A 
painter, now, who spends years of his life in earnest study — • 
it does not matter to him whether the public applaud or not, 
whether they forget or not. He has always before him these 
evidences of his genius ; and among his friends he can choose 
his fit audience. Even wdien he is an old man, and listening 
to the praise of all the young fellows who have caught the 
taste of the public, he can, at all events, show something of 
his work as testimony of what he was. But an actress, the 
moment she leaves the stage, is a snuffed-out candle. She 
has her stage-dresses to prove that she acted certain parts ; 
and she may have a scrap-book with cuttings of criticisms 
from the provincial papers ! You know, dear Keith, all this 
is very heart-sickening ; and I am quite aware that it will 
trouble you, as it troubles me, and sometimes makes me 
ashamed of myself ; but then it is true, and it is better for 
both of us that it should be known. I could not undertake 
to be a hypocrite all my life. I must confess to you, what- 
ever be the consequences, that I distinctly made a mistake 
when I thought it was such an easy thing to adopt a whole 
new set of opinions and tastes and habits. The old Adam, 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


S 12 

is your Scotch ministers would say, keeps coming back, to 
iog my elbow as an old familiar friend. And you w r ould not 
aave me conceal the fact from you ? I know how difficult it 
frill be for you to understand or sympathize with me. You 
nave never been brought up to a profession, every inch of 
your progress in which you have to contest against rivals ; 
and you don’t know how jealous one is of one’s position when 
it is gained. I think I would rather be made an old woman 
of sixty to-morrow morning, than get up and go out and find 
my name printed in small letters in the theatre-bills. And if 
I try to imagine what my feelings would be if I were to 'etire 
from the stage, surely that is in your interest as well as mine. 
How would you like to be tied for life to a person who was 
continually looking back to her past career with regret, 
and who was continually looking around her for objects of 
jealous and envious anger ? Really, I try to do my duty by 
everybody. All the time I was at Castle Dare I tried to pic- 
ture myself living there, and taking an interest in the fishing, 
and the farms, and so on ; and if I was haunted by the dread 
that, instead of thinking about the fishing and the farms, I 
should be thinking of the triumphs of the actress who had 
tak^n my place in the attention of the public, I had to recog- 
nize the fact. It is wretched and pitiable, no doubt ; but 
look at my training. If you tell me to be true to myself — ■ 
that is myself. And at all events 1 feel more contented that 
1 have made a frank confession.” 

Surely it was a fair and reasonable letter ? But the 
answer that came to it had none of its pleasant common- 
sense. It was all a wild appeal — a calling on her not to fall 
away from the resolves she had made — not to yield to those 
despondent moods. There was but the one way to get rid 
of her doubts and hesitations ; let her at once cast aside the 
theatre, and all its associations and malign influences, and 
become his wife, and he would take her by the hand and 
lead her away from that besetting temptation. Could she 
forget the day on which she gave him the red rose ? She 
was a woman ; she could not forget. 

She folded up the letter and held it in her hand, and 
went into her father’s room. There was a certain petulant 
and irritated look on her face. 

“ He says he is coming up to London, papa,” said she, 
abruptly. 

“ I suppose you mean Sir Keith Macleod,” said he. 

" Well, of course. And can you imagine anything mors 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


3 , 3 


provoking — just at present, when we are rehearsing this new 
play, and when all the time I can afford Mr. Lemuel wants 
for the portrait ? I declare the only time I feel quiet, 
secure, safe from the interference of anybody, and more 
especially the worry of the postman, is when I am having 
that portrait painted ; the intense stillness of the studio is 
delightful, and you have beautiful things all around you. 
As soon as I open the door, I come out into the world again, 
with constant vexations and apprehensions all around. 
Why, I don’t know but that at any minute Sir Keith Mac- 
ieod may not come walking up to the gate ! ” 

“ And why should that possibility keep you in terror i M 
said her father, calmly. 

“ Well, not in terror,” said she, looking down, “but — but 
anxiety, at least ; and a very great deal of anxiety. Be- 
cause I know he will want explanations, and promises, and I 
don’t know what — just at the time I am most worried and un- 
settled about everything I mean to do.” 

Her father regarded her for a second or two. 

“ Well ? ” said he. 

“ Isn’t that enough ? ” she said, with some indignation. 

“Oh,” said he, coldly, “you have merely come to me to 
pour out your tale of wrongs; You don’t want me to inter- 
fere, I suppose. Am I to condole with you ? ” 

“ I don’t know why you should speak to me like that, at 
all events,” said she. 

“ Well, I will tell you,” he responded, in the same cool, 
matter of fact way. “ When you told me you meant to give 
up the theatre and marry Sir Keith Macleod, my answer was 
that you were likely to make a mistake. I thought you were 
a fool to throw away your position as an actress ; but I did 
not urge the point. I merely left the matter in your own 
hands. Well, you went your own way. Eor a time your 
head was filled with romance — Highland chieftains, and 
gillies, and red-deer, and baronial halls, and all that stuff; 
and no doubt you persuaded that young man that you be- 
lieved in the whole thing fervently, and there was ro end 
to the names you called theatres and everybody coni.ecled 
with them. Not only that, but you must needs drag me up 
to the Highlands to pay a visit to a number of strangers with 
whom both you and I lived on terms of apparent hospitality 
and goodwill, but irt reality on terms of very great restraint. 
Very well. You begin to discover that your romance was a 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


3U 

little bit removed from the actual state of affairs — a I least, 
you say so — ” 

“ I say so ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ Hear me out/’ the father said, patiently. “ 1 don’t 
.vant to offend you, Gerty, but I wish to speak, plairdy. You 
have an amazing faculty for making yourself believe any- 
thing that suits you. I have not the least doubt but that 
you have persuaded yourself that the change in your manner 
towarc Keith Macleod was owing to your discovering that 
their w*v of life was different from what you expected ; or 
perhaps that you still had a lingering fancy for the stage — 
anything you like. I say you could make yourself believe 
anything. But 1 must point out to you that any acquaintance 
of yours — an outsider — would probably look on the marked 
attentions Mr. Lemuel has been paying you ; and on your 
sudden conversion to the art-theories of himself and his 
friends ; and on the revival of your ambitious notions about 
tragedy — ” 

“You need say no more,” said she, with her face grown 
quickly red, and with a certain proud impatience in her look. 

“ Oh, yes, but I mean to say more,” her father said, 
quietly, “ unless you wish to leave the room. I mean to say 
this — that when you have persuaded yourself somehow that 
you would rather reconsider your promise to Sir Keith Mac- 
leod — am I right ? — that it does seem rather hard that you 
should grow ill-tempered with him and accuse him of being 
the author of your troubles and vexations. I am no great 
friend of his — I disliked his coming here at the outset ; but 
1 will say he is a manly young fellow', and I know he would 
not try to throw the blame of any change in his own senti- 
ments on to some one else. And another thing I mean to 
say is — that your playing the part of the injured Griselda is 
not quite becoming, Gerty : at all events, I have no s)tu- 
pathy with it. If you come and tell me frankly that you have 
grown tired of Macleod, and wish somehow to break youi 
promise to him, then I can advise you.” 

“ And what would you advise, then,” said she, with equal 
calmness, “ supposing that you choose to throw all the blame 
on me.” 

“ I would say that it is a woman’s privilege to be allowed 
to change her mind ; and that the sooner you told him so the 
better.” 

“ Very simple ! ” she said, with a flavor of sarcasm in her 
tone. “ Perhaps you don’t know that man as I know him.” 


MACLEOD OF DARE 


3*5 


" Then you are afraid of him ? ” 

She was silent. 

*.* These are certainly strange relations between two peo 
pie who talk of getting married. But, in any case, he cannot 
suffocate you in a cave, for you live in London ; and in Lon 
don it is only an occasional young man about Shoreditch who’ 
smashes his sweetheart with a poker when she proposes to 
marry somebody else. He might, it is true, summon you fo< 
breach of promise ; but he would prefer not to be laughed at. 
Come, come, Gerty, get rid of all this nonsense. 1 ell him 
frankly the position, and don’t come bothering me with pre- 
tended wrongs and injuries.” 

“ Do you think I ought to tell him ? ” said she, slowly. 

“ Certainly.” 

She went away and wrote to Macleod ; but she did not 
wholly explain her position. She only begged once more for 
time to consider her own feelings. It would be better that 
he should not come just now to London. And if she were 
convinced, after honest and earnest questioning of herself, 
that she had not the courage and strength of mind necessary 
for the great change in her life she had proposed, would it 
not be better for his happiness and hers that the confession 
should be made ? 

Macleod did not answer that letter, and she grew alarmed. 
Several days elapsed. One afternoon, coming home from 
rehearsal, she saw a card lying on the tray on the hall-table. 

“ Papa,” said she, with her face somewhat paler than 
usual, “ Sir Keith Macleod is in London ! ” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

A CLIMAX. 

She was alone in the drawing-room. She heard the bell 
ring, and the sound of some one being let in by the front 
door. Then there was a man’s, step i i the passage outside. 
The craven heart grew still with dread 

But it was with a great gentleness that he came forward 
to her, anc took both of her trembling hands, and said, 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


3*6 

“ Gerty, you do not think that I have come to be angrj 
with you — not that ! ” 

He couid not but see with those anxious, pained, tender 
eyes of his that she was very pale ; and her heart was now 
beating so fast — after the first shock of fright — that for a 
second or two she could not answer him. She withdrew her 
hands. And all this time he was regarding her face with ao 
eager, wistful intensity. 

“ It is — so strange — for me to see you again,” sa::d he, 
almost in a bewildered way. “ The days have been very long 
without you — I had almost forgotten what you were like. 
And now — and now — oh, Gerty, you are not angry with me 
for troubling you ? ” 

She withdrew a step and sat down. 

“There is a chair,” said she. He did not seem to under- 
stand what she meant. He was trying to read her thoughts 
in her eyes, in her manner, in the pale face ; and his earnest 
gaze did not leave her for a moment. 

“ I know you must be greatly troubled and worried, 
Gerty ; and — and I tried not to come ; but your last letter 
was like the end of the world for me. I thought everything 
might go then. But then I said, ‘ Are you a man, and to be 
cast down by that ? She is bewildered by some passing 
doubt ; her mind is sick for the moment ; you must go to her, 
and recall her, and awake her to herself ; and you will see 
her laugh again ! ’ And so I am here, Gerty ; and if I am 
troubling you at a bad time — well, it is only for a moment or 
two ; and you will not mind that? You and I are so differ- 
ent, Gerty ! You are all-perfect. You do not want the 
sympathy of any one. You are satisfied with your own 
thinkings ; you are a world to yourself. But I cannot live 
without being in sympathy with you. It is a craving — it is 
like a fire — Well, I did not come here to talk about 
myself.” 

“ I am sorry you took so much trouble,” she said, in a 
low voice — and there was a nervous restraint in her maimer. 
“ You might have answered my letter, instead.” 

“ Your letter ! ” he exclaimed. “ Why Gerty, I could not 
talk to the letter. It was not yourself. It was no more part 
of yourself than a glove. You will forget that letter, and 
all the letters that ever you wrote ; let them go away like the 
leaves of former autumns that are quite forgotten ; and instead 
of the letters, be yourself — as I see you now — proud-spirited 
and noble — my beautiful Gerty — my wife ! ” 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


3*7 


He make a step forward and caught her hand. S;.e did 
not see that there were sudden tears in the imploring eyes. 
She only knew that this vehemence seemed to suffocate her. 

“ Keith,” said she, and she gently disengaged her hand, 
“ will you sit down, and we can talk over this matter calmly, 
if you please ; but I think it would have been better if you 
left us both to explain ourselves in writing. It is difficult to 
say certain things without giving pain— and you know I don*: 
wish to do that — ” 

“ I know,” said he, with an absent look oh his face ; and 
he took the chair she had indicated, and sat down beside her ; 
and now he was no longer regarding her eyes. 

“ It is quite true that you and I are different,” said she, 
with a certain resolution in her tone, as if she was deter- 
mined to get through with a painful task — “ very seriously dif- 
ferent in everything — in our natures, and habits, and opin- 
ions, and all the rest of it. How we ever became acquainted 
I don’t know ; I am afraid it was not a fortunate accident for 
either of us. Well — ” 

Here she stopped. She had not prepared any speech ; 
and she suddenly found herself without a word to say, when 
words, words, words were all she eagerly wanted in order to 
cover her retreat. And as for him, he gave her no help. He 
sal silent — his eyes downcast — a tired and haggard look on 
his lace. 

“ Well,” she resumed, with a violent effort, “ I was say- 
ing, perhaps we made a mistake in our estimates of each 
other. That is a ver}' common thing ; and sometimes people 
find out in time, and sometimes they don’t. I am sure you 
agree with me, Keith ? ” 

“ Oh yes, Gerty,” he answered, absently. 

“ And then — and then — I am quite ready to confess that 
1 may have been mistaken about myself ; and I am afraid 
you encouraged the mistake. You know', I am quite sure, 
l am not the heroic person you tried to make me believe I 
was. I have found myself out, Keith ; and just in time be- 
fore making a terrible blunder. I am very glad that it is my- 
self I have to blame. I have got very little resolution. ‘Un 
stable as water ’ — that is the phrase : perhaps I should not 
like other people to apply it to me ; but I am quite ready to 
apply it to myself ; for I know it to be true ; and it would be 
a great pity if any one’s life were made miserable through my 
fault. Of course, I thought for a time that 1 was a very cour- 
ageous and resolute person — you flattered me into believing 


318 MACLEOD OF DARE. 

it ; but I have found myself out since. Don’t you under 
stand, Keith ? ” 

He gave a sign of assent; his silence was more embar- 
rassing than any protest or appeal. 

“ Oh, 1 could choose such a wife for you, Keith ! — a wife 
worthy of you — a woman as womanly as you are manly ; and I 
ran think of her being proud to be your wife, and how all the 
people who, game, to your house would admire and love 
her-” Ml 

He looked up in a bewildered way. 

“ Gerty,” he said, “ I don’t quite know what if is you are 
speaking about. You are speaking as if some strange thing 
had come between us ; and I was to go one way, and you 
another, through all the years to come. Why, that is all non- 
sense ! See ! I can take your hand — that is the hand that 
gave me the red rose. You said you loved me, then ; you 
cannot have changed already. I have not changed. What 
is there that would try to separate us ? Only words, Gerty ! 
— a cloud of words humming round the ears and confusing 
one. Oh, I have grown heart-sick of them in your letters, 
Gerty; until I put the letters away altogether, and I said, 
* They are no more than the leaves of last autumn : when I 
see Gerty, and take her hand, all the words will disappear 
then.’ Your hand is not made of words, Gerty; it is warm 
and kind, and gentle — it is a woman’s hand. Do you think 
words are able to make me let go my grasp of it? I put 
them away — I do not hear any more of them. 1 only know 
diat you are beside me, Gerty; and I hold your hand 1 ” 

He was no longer the imploring lover : there was a 
strange elation, a sort of triumph, in his tone. 

“ Why, Gerty, do you know why I have come to London? 
it is to carry you off — not with the pipes yelling to drown 
your screams, as Flora Macdonald’s mother was carried off 
by her lover, but taking you by the hand, and waiting for the 
smile on your face. That is the way out of all our troubles, 
Gerty : we shall be plagued within o more words then. Oh, 
I understand it all, sweetheart — your doubts of yourself, and 
t our thinking about the stage : it is all a return of the old 
a id evil influences that you and I thought had been shaken 
off forever. Perhaps that was a little mistake ; but no mat- 
ter. You will shake them off now, Gerty. You will show 
yourself to have the courage of a woman. It is but one 
step, and you are free ! Gerty,” said he, with a smile on his 
(ice, “ do you know what that is? ” 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


3*9 

He took from his pocket a printed document, and opened 
it. Certain words there that caught her eye caused her to 
turn even paler than she had been ; and she would not even 
touch the paper. He put it back. 

“ Are you frightened, sweetheart ? No ! You will take 
this one step, and you will see how all those fancies and 
doubts will disappear forever ! Oh, Gerty, when I got this 
paper into my pocket to-day, and came out into the street, I 
was laughing to myself; and a poor woman said, ‘You are 
very merry, sir; will you give a poor old woman a copper? * 
‘ Well/ I said, ‘ here is a sovereign for you, and perhaps you 
will be merry too ? * — and I would have given every one a 
sovereign, if I had had it to give. But do you know what I 
was laughing at ? — I was laughing to think what Captain 
Macalium would do when you went on board as my wife. 
For he put up the flags for you when you were only a visitoi 
coming to Dare ; but when I take you by the hand, Gerty, 
as you are going along the gangway, and when we get on to 
the paddle-box, and Captain Macalium comes forward, and 
when I tell him that you are now my wife, why, he will not 
know what to do to welcome you ! And Hamish, too — I 
think Hamish will go mad that day. And then, sweetheart, 
you will go along to Erraidh, and you will go up to the sig- 
nal-house on the rocks, and we will fire a cannon to tell the 
men at Dubh-Artach to look out. And what will be the mes- 
sage you will signal to them, Gerty, with the great white 
boards ? Will you send them your compliments, which is 
‘.he English way ? Ah, but I know what they will answer to 
you. They will answer in the Gaelic ; and this will be the 
answer that will come to you from the lighthouse — ‘ A hun- 
dred thousand welcomes to the young bride ! ’ And you will 
soon learn the Gaelic, too ; and you will get used to our 
rough ways : and you will no longer have any fear of the 
sea. Some day you will get so used to us that you will think 
the \ery sea-birds to be your friends, and that they know 
when you are going away and when you are coming back, 
and that they know you will not allow any one to shoot at 
them or steal their eggs in the springtime. But if you 
would rather not have our rough ways, Gerty, I will go with 
you wherever you please — did I not say that to you, sweet- 
heart ? There are many fine houses in Essex — I saw them 
when I went down to YVoodford with Major Stuart. And 
for your sake I would give up the sea altogether; and I 
would think no more about boats ; and I would ge to Essex 


320 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


with you if I was never to see one of the sea-birds again. 
That is what I will do for your sake, Gerty, if you wish ; 
though I thought you would be kind to the poor people 
around us at Dare, and be proud of their love for you, and 
gel used to our homely ways. But I will go into Essex, ii 
you like, Gerty — so that the sea shall not frighten you ; and 
you will never be asked to go into one of our rough boati 
any more. It shall be just as you wish, Gerty ; whether you 
want to go away into Essex, or whethei you will come away 
with me to the North, that I will say to Captain Macallum, 

‘ Captain Macallum, what will you do, i ow that the English 
lady has been brave enough to leave her home and her 
friends to live with us ? and what are we to do now to show 
that we are proud and glad of her coming ? ” 

Well, tears did gather in her eyes as she listened to this 
wild, despairing cry, and her hands were working nervously 
with a book she had taken from the table ; but what answer 
could she make. In self-defence against this vehemence she 
adopted an injured air. 

“ Really, Keith,” said, she, in a low voice, “ you do not 
seem to pay any attention to anything I say or write. Surely 
1 have prepared you to understand that my consent to what 
you propose is quite impossible — for the present, at least ? 

J asked for time to consider.” 

“ I know — I know,” said he. “ You would wait, and let 
those doubts close in upon you. But here is away to defeat 
them all. Sweetheart, why do you not rise and give me 
your hand, and say ‘ Yes ? ’ There would be no more doubts 
at all ! ” 

“ But surely, Keith, you must understand me when I say 
that rushing into a marriage in this mad way is a very dan- 
gerous thing. You won’t look or listen to anything I sug- 
gest. And really — well, I think you should have some little 
consideration for me — ” 

He regarded her for a moment with a look almost of won- 
der ; and then he said, hastily, — 

“ Perhaps you are right, Gerty ; I should not have been 
so selfish. But — but you cannot tell how I have suffered — 
all through the night-time, thinking and thinking- -and say- 
ing to myself that surely you could not be going away from 
me — and in the morning, oh ! the emptiness of all the sea 
and the sky, and you not there to be asked whether you 
would go out to Colonsay, or round to Loch Scridain, or go 
to see the rock-pigeons fly out of the caves. It is not a long 


MACLEOD OP DARE . 


321 


t»me since you were with us Gerty ; but to me it seems 
longer than half a dozen of winters ; for in the winter I said 
to myself, ‘ Ah, well, she is now working off the term of her 
imprisonment in the theatre ; and when the days get long 
again, and the blue skies come again, she will use the first 
of her freedom to come and see the sea-birds about 1 >are.’ 

I But this last time, Gerty — well, 1 had strange doubts and 
misgivings ; and sometimes I dreamed in the night-time that 
you were going away from me altogether — on board a ship 
— and I called to you and you would not even turn your 
head. Oh, Gerty, I can see you now as you were then — 
your head turned partly aside ; and strangers round you ; 
and the ship was going farther and farther away ; and if I 
jumped into the sea, how could I overtake you ? But at 
least the waves would come over me, and I should have for- 
getfulness.” 

“ Yes, but you seem to think that my letters to you had 
no meaning whatever,” said she, almost petulantly. “ Surely 
I tried to explain clearly enough what our relative positions 
were ? ” 

“ You had got back to the influence of the theatre, Gerty 
— I would not believe the things you wrote. I said, ‘ You 
will go now and rescue her from herself. She is only a girl ; 
she is timid ; she believes the foolish things that are said by 
the people around her.’ And then, do you know, sweetheart,” 
said he, with a sad smile on his face, “ I thought if I v ere 
to go and get this paper, and suddenly show it to you — w ell, 
it is not the old romantic way, but I thought you would 
frankly say ‘ Yes ! ’ and have an end of all this pain. Why, 
Gerty, you have been many a romantic heroine in the theatre ; 
and you know they are not long in making up their minds. 
And the heroines in our old songs, too : do you know the 
song of Lizzie Lindsay, who ‘ kilted her coats o’ green satin,’ 
and was off to the Highlands before any one could interfere 
with her ? That is the way to put an end to doubts. Gerty, 
be a brave woman! Be worthy of yourself! Sweetheart, 
have you the courage now to ‘ kilt your coats o’ green satin ? ’ 
And I know that in the Highlands you will have as proud a 
welcome as ever Lord Ronald Macdonald gave his bride 
from the South.” 

Then the strange smile went away from his face. 

“ I am tiring you, Gerty,” said he. 

“ Well, you are very much excited, Keith,” said she ; 
*' and you won’t listen to what f have to say. 1 think youi 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 


322 

coming- to London was a mistake. You are giving both of 
u< a great deal of pain ; and, as far as I can see, to no pur- 
pose. We could much better have arrived at a proper no- 
tion of each other’s feelings by writing; and ihe matter :s 
so serious as to require consideration. If it is the business 
of a heroine to plunge two people into lifelong misery, with- 
out thinking twice about it, then I am not a heroine. Her 
‘coats o’ green satin ! ’ — I should like to know what was the 
end of that story. Now really, dear Keith, you must bear 
with me if I say that I have a little more prudence than you, 
and I must put a check on your headstrong wishes. Now I 
know there is no use in our continuing this conversation : 
you are too anxious and eager to mind anything 1 say. I 
will write to you.” 

“Gerty,” said he, slowly, “ I know you are not a selfish 
or cruel woman ; and 1 do not think you would willingly 
pain any one. But if you came to me and said, ‘ Answer 
my question, for it is a question of life or death to me,’ I 
should not answer that I would write a letter to you.” 

“ You may call me selfish, if you like,” said she, with 
some show of temper, “ but 1 tell you once for all that I can- 
. ot bear the fatigue of interviews such as this, and I think 
it was very inconsiderate of you to force it on me. And as 
for answering a question, the position we are in is not to be 
explained with a ‘ Yes * or a ‘ No ’ — it is mere romance and 
folly to speak of people running away and getting married ; 
for I suppose that is what you mean. I will write to you if 
you like, and give you every explanation in my power. But I 
don’t think we shall arrive at any better understanding by 
your accusing me of selfishness or cruelty.” 

“ Gerty ! ” 

“ And if it comes to that,” she continued, with a flush of 
angry daring in her face, “ perhaps I could bring a similar 
charge against you, with some better show of reason.” 

“That I was ever selfish or cruel as regards you ! said 
he. with a vague wonder, as if he had not heard aright. 

“ Shall I tell you, then,” said she, “ as you seem bent on 
recriminations ? Perhaps you thought I did not understand ? 
— that 1 was too frightened to understand ? Oh, I knew 
very well ! ” 

“ I don’t know what you mean ! ” said he, in absolute be- 
wilderment. 

“ What ! — not the night we were caught in the storm in 
crossing to Iona 5 — and when I clrng to your arm, you shook 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


3*3 

me oft, so that you should be free to strike for yourself if we] 
were thrown into the water? Oh, I don’t blame you ! It 
was only natural. But I think you should be cautious in 
accusing others of selfishness.” 

For a moment he stood looking at her, with something 
like fear in his eyes — fear and horror, and a doubt as to 
whether this thing was possible ; and then came the hopeless 
cry of a breaking heart, — 

“ Oh God, Gerty I I thought you loved me — and you be* 
lieved that 1” 


CHARTER XL. 

DREAMS. 

This long and terrible night : will it never end ? Or 
will not life itself go out, and let the sufferer have rest ? The 
slow and sleepless hours toil through the darkness ; and 
there is a ticking ^ * '■'Wk in the hushed room; and this 
agony of pain still throbbing and throbbing in the breaking 
heart. And then, as the pale dawn shows gray in the win- 
dows, the anguish of despair follows him even into the wan 
realms of sleep, and there are wild visions rising before the 
sick brain. Strange visions they are ; the confused and 
seething phantasmagoria of a shattered life ; himself regard- 
ing himself as another figure, and beginning to pity this 
poor wretch who is not permitted to die. “Poor wretch- 
poor wretch ! ” he says to himself. “ Did they use to call 
you Macleod ; and what is it that has brought you to this ? ” 
******* 

See now ! He lays his bead down on the warm heather, 
on this beautiful summer day, and the seas are all blue 
around him ; and the sun is shining on the white sands of 
Iona. Far below, the men are singing “ Fhir a bhata ,” and 
the sea birds are softly calling. But suddenly there is a 
horror in his brain, and the day grows black, for an adder 
has stung him ! — it is Righinn — the Princess — the Queen of 
Snakes. Oh why does she laugh, and look at him so with 
that clear, cruel look ? He would rather not go into this 
still house where the lidless-eyed creatures are lyiag in the ti 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


3-M 

awful sleep. Why does she laugh ? Is it a matter for laugh- 
ing that a man should be stung by an adder, and all his life 
grow black around him ? For it is then that they put him in 
a grave ; and she — she stands with her foot on it ! There is 
moonlight around ; and the jackdaws are wheeling over- 
head ; our voices sound hollow in these dark ruins. But 
you can hear this, sweetheart : shall I whisper it to you ? 
“ You are standing on the grave of Macleod .” 

£ £ . Jff £ Jff J/f- 

Lo ! the grave opens ! Why, Hamish, it was no grave at 
all, but only the long winter ; and now we are all looking at 
a strange thing away in the south, for who ever saw all the 
beautiful flags before that are fluttering there in the summer 
wind ? Oh, sweetheart ! — your hand — give me your small, 
warm, white hand ! See ! we will go up the steep path by 
the rocks ; and here is the small white house ; and have you 
never seen so great a telescope before ? And is it all a haze 
of heat over the sea ; or can you make out the quivering 
phantom of the lighthouse — the small gray thing out at the 
edge of the world ? Look ! they are signalling now ; they 
know you are here; come out, quick! to the great white 
boards ; and we will send them over a message — and you will 
see that they will send back a thousand 'welcomes to the 
young bride. Our ways are poor ; we have no satin bowers 
to show you, as the old songs say — but do you know who are 
coming to wait on you ? The beautiful women out of the 
old songs are coming to be your handmaidens : I have asked 
them — I saw them in many dreams — I spoke gently to them, 
and they are coming. Do you see them ? There is the 
bonnie Lizzie Lindsay, who kilted her coats o’ green satin tc 
be off with young Macdonald; and Burd Helen — she will 
come to you pale and beautiful ; and proud Lady Maisry, 
that was burned for her true love’s sake; and Mary Scott 
of Yarrow, that set all men’s hearts aflame. See, they will 
take you by the hand. They are the Queen’s Maries. There 
is no other grandeur at Castle Dare. 

*#***## 

Is this Macleod ? They used to say that Macleod was a 
man ! They used to say he had not much fear of anything ; 
but this is only a poor trembling boy, a coward trembling at 
everything, and going away to London with a lie on his lips. 
And they know how Sholto Macleod died, and how Roder- 
ick Macleod died, and Ronald, and Duncan the Fair- 
haired, and Hector, but the last of them — this poor wretch 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


3 2 S 

— what will they say of him ? “ Oh, he died for the love of 

a woman ! ” She struck him in the heart ; and he coaid not 
strike back, for she was a woman. Ah, but if it was a man 
now ! They say the Macleods are all become sheep ; and 
their courage has gone ; and if they were to grasp even a 
Rose-leaf they could not crush it, It is dangerous to say 
that ; do not trust to it. Oh, it is you, you poor fool in the 
newspaper, who are whirling along behind the boat ? Does 
the swivel work ? Are the sharks after you ? Do you hear 
them behind you cleaving the water ? The men of Dubh* 
Artach will have a good laugh when we whisk you past. 
What ! you beg for mercy ? — come out, then, you poor devil ! 
Here is a tarpaulin for you. Give him a glass of whiskey, 
John Cameron. And so you know about theatres ; and per- 
haps you have ambition, too ; and there is nothing in the 
world so fine as people clapping their hands ? But you — 
even you — if I were to take you over in the dark, and the 
storm came on, you would not think that I thrust you aside 
to look after myself? You are a stranger ; you are helpless 
in boats : do you think I would thrust you aside ? It was not 
fair — oh, it was not fair ? If she wished to kill my heart, 
there were other things to say than that. Why, sweetheart 
don’t you know that I got the little English boy out of the 
water ; and you think I would let you drown ! If we were 
both drowning now, do you know what I should do ? I should 
laugh, and say, “ Sweetheart, sweetheart, if we were not to 
be together in life, we are now in death, and that is enough 
for me.” 

******* 

What is the slow sad sound that one hears ? The grave 
is on the lonely island ; there is no one left on the island 
now ; there is nothing but the grave. “ Man that is born oj 
a wo?nan hath but a short time to live , and is full of misery." 
Oh no, not that! That is all over; the misery is over, and 
there is peace. This is the sound of the sea-birds, and the 
wind coming over the seas, and the waves on the rocks. Or 
is it Donald, in the boat going back to the land ? The people 
have their heads bent ; it is a Lament the boy is playing. 
And how will you play the Cumhadh na Cloinne to-night, 
Donald ? — and what will the mother say ? It is six sons she 
has to think of now ; and Patrick Mor had but seven dead 
when he wrote the Lament of the Children. Janet, see to 
her 1 Tell her it is no matter now ; the peace has come ; the 
misery is over ; there is only the quiet sound of the waves 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


326 

But you, Donald, come here. Put down your pipes, and lis 
ten. Do you remember the English lady who was here in the 
summer-time , and your pipes were too loud for her, and were 
taken away? She is coming again. She will try to put hei 
foot on my grave. But you will watch for her coming, Don 
aid; and you will go quickly to Hamish ; and Hamish will 
go down to the shore and send her back. You are only a boy, 
Donald ; she would not heed you ; and the ladies at the 
Castle are too gentle, and would give her fair words ; but 
Hamish is not afraid of her — he will drive her back ; she 
shall not put her foot on my grave, for my heart can bear no 
more pain. 

******* 

And are you going away — Rose-leaf— Rose-leaf— are you 
sailing away from me on the smooth waters to the South ? [ 

put out my hand to you ; but you are afraid of the hard 
hands of the Northern people, and you shrink from me. Do 
you think we would harm you, then, that you tremble so ? 
The savage days are gone. Come — we will show you the 
beautiful islands in the summer-time ; and you will take high 
courage, and become yourself a Macleod ; and all the people 
will be proud to hear of Fionaghal, the Fair Stranger, who 
has come to make her home among us. Oh, our hands are 
gentle enough when it is a Rose-leaf they have to touch. 
There was blood on them in the old days; we have washed 
it off now : see — this beautiful red rose you have given me 
is not afraid of rough hands ! We have no beautiful roses 
to give you, but we will give you a piece of white heather, 
and that will secure to you peace and rest and a happy heart 
all your days. You will not touch it, sweetheart ? Do not 
be afraid ! There is no adder in it. But if you were to find, 
now, a white adder, would you know what to do with it ? 
There was a sweetheart in an old song knew what to do with 
an adder. Do you know the song ? The young man goes 
back to his home, and he says to his mother, “ Oh make my 
bed soon ; for I’m weary, weary hunting, and fain would lie 
doon.” Why do you turn so pale, sweetheart ? There is the 
whiteness of a white adder in your cheeks; and your eyes — 
there is death in your eyes! Donald! — Hamish! help! 

help ! — her toot is coming near to mv grave ! — my heart — ! ” 
* * * * ' * # # 
******* 

And so, in a paroxysm of wild terror and pain, he awoke 
again ; and behold, the ghastly white daylight was in the 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


32 7 

room — the cold-glare of a day he would lain have never seen 
It was ail in a sort of dream that this haggard faced man 
dressed, and drank a cup of tea, and got outside into the 
rain. Tne rain, and the noise of the cabs, and the gloom of 
London skies ; these harsh and commonplace things were 
easier to bear than the dreams of the sick biain. And then, 
somehow or other, he got his way down to Aldershot, and 
sought out Norman Ogilvie. 

“ Macleod ! ” Ogilvie cried — startled beyond measure by 
his appearance. 

“ I — I wanted to shake hands with you, Ogilvie, before I 
am going,” said this hollow-eyed man, who seemed to have 
grown old. 

Ogilvie hesitated for a second or two ; and then he said, 
vehemently, — 

“ Well, Macleod, I am not a sentimental chap — but — but 
— hang it ! it is too bad. And again and again I have 
thought of w r riting to you, as your friend, just within the last 
week or so ; and then I said to myself that tale-bearing never 
came to any good. But she won’t darken Mrs. Ross’s door 
again — that I know. Mrs. Ross went straight to her the 
other day. There is no nonsense about that woman. And 
when she got to understand that the story w r as true, she let 
Miss White know that she considered you to be a friend of 
bers, and that — well, you know how r women give hints — ” 

“ But I don’t know what you mean, Ogilvie ! ” he cried, 
quite bewildered. “ Is it a thing for all the world to know ? 
What story is it — when I knew nothing till yesterday ? ” 

“ Well, you know now : I saw' by your face a minute ago 
that she had told you the truth at last,” Ogilvie said. “ Mac- 
leod, don’t blame me. When I heard of her being about to 
be married, I did not believe the story — ” 

Macleod sprang at him like a tiger, and caught his arm 
with the grip of a vise. 

Her getting married ? — to whom ? ” 

“ Why, don’t you know r ? ” Ogilvie said, with his eyes 
staring. u Oh yes, you must know. I see you know ! Why, 
the look in your face w-hen you came into this room — ” 

“ Who is the man, Ogilvie ? ” — and. there was the sudden 
hate of ten thousand devils in his eyes. 

“ Why, it is that artist fellow — Lemuel. You don’t mean 
to say she hasn’t told you ? It is the common story ! And 
Mrs. Ross thought it was only a piece of nonsense — she 
said they were always making out those stories about act 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


32S 

resses — but she went to Miss White. And when Miss White 
could not deny it, Mrs. Ross said there and then they had 
better let their friendship drop. Macleod, I would have 
written to you — upon my soul, I would have written to you 
— but how could I imagine you did not know ? And do you 
really mean to say she has not told you anything of what 
has been going on recently — what was well known to every- 
body ? ” 

And this young man spoke in a passion, too ; Keith Mac- 
leod was his friend. But Macleod himself seemed, with 
some powerful effort of will, to have got the better of his 
sudden and fierce hate ; he sat down again ; he spoke in a 
low voice, but there was a dark look in his eyes. 

“No,” said he, slowly, “ she has not told me all about it. 
Well, she did tell me about a poor creature — a woman-man 
— a thing of affectation, with his paint-box and his velvet 
coat, and his furniture. Ogilvie, have you got any brandy ? ” 

Ogilvie rang, and got some brandy, some water, a tum- 
bler, and a wineglass placed on the table. Macleod, with a 
hand that trembled violently, filled the tumbler half full of 
brandy. 

“ And she could not deny the story to Mrs. Ross ? ” said 
he, with a strange and hard smile on his face. “ It was her 
modesty. Ah, you don’t know, Ogilvie, what an exalted soul 
she has. She is full of idealisms. She could not explain all 
that to Mrs. Ross. /know. And when she found herself 
too weak to carry out her aspirations, she sought help, fs 
that it ? She would gain assurance and courage from the 
woman-man ? ” 

He pushed the tumbler away; his hand was still trem- 
bling violently. 

“ I will not touch that Ogilvie,” said he, “ for I have not 
much mastery over myself. I am going away now — I am go- 
ing back now to the Highlands — oh! you do not know what 
l have become since I met that woman — a coward and alim ! 
They wouldn’t have you sit down at the mess-table, Ogilvie, 
if you were that, would they? I dare not stay in London 
now. I must run away now — like a hare that is hunted. It 
would not be good for her or for me that I should stay any 
longer in London.” 

He rose and held out his hand ; there was a curious 
glazed look on his eyes. Ogilvie pressed him back into the 
chair again. 

“ You are not going out in this condition, Macleod ? — 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


329 

you don’t know what you are doing ! Come now, let us be 
reasonable ; let us talk over the thing like men. And 1 
must say, first of all, that I am heartily glad of it, for your 
sake It will be a hard twist at first ; but, bless you ! lots of 
fellows have had to fight through the same thing, and they 
come up smiling after it, and you would scarcely know the 
difference. Don’t imagine I am surprised— oh no. I never 
did believe in that young woman ; I thought she was a deuced 
sight too clever; and when she used to go about humbugging 
this one and the other with her innocent airs, I said to my- 
self, ‘ Oh, it’s all very well : but you know what you are 
about.’ Of course there was no use talking to you. I believe 
at one time Mrs. Ross was considering the point whether she 
ought not to give you a hint — seeing that you had met Miss 
White first at ner house — that the yourlg lady was rather 
clever at flirtation, and that you ought to keep a sharp lookout. 
But then you would only have blazed up in anger. It was 
no use talking to you. And then, after all, I said that if you 
were so bent on marrying her, the chances were that you 
would have no difficulty, for I thought the bribe of her being 
called Lady Macleod would be enough for any actress. As 
for this man Lemuel, no doubt he is a very great man, as 
people say ; but I don’t know much about these things my- 
self ; and — and — I think it is very plucky of Mrs. Ross to cut 
off two of her lions at one stroke. It shows she must have 
taken an uncommon liking for you. So you must cheer up, 
Macleod. If woman take a fancy to you like that, you’ll eas- 
ily get a better wife than Miss White would have made. 
Mind you, I don’t go back from anything I ever said of her. 
She is a handsome woman, and no mistake ; and I will say 
that she is the best waltzer that I ever met with in the whole 
course of my life — without exception. But she’s the sort of 
woman who, if I married her, would want some looking after 
— I mean, that is my impression. The fact is, Macleod, away 
there in Mull you have been brought up too much on books 
and your own imagination. You were ready to believe any 
pretty woman, with soft English ways, an angel. Well, you 
have had a twister ; but you’ll come through it ; and you will 
get to believe, after all, that women are very good creatures 
just as men are very good creatures, when you get the right 
sort. Come now, Macleod, pull yourself together. Perhaps 
I have just as hard an opinion of her conduct towards you as 
you have yourself. But you know what Tommy Moore, or 
some fellow like that says — ‘ Though she be not fair to me. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


33 ° 

what the devil care I how fair she be ? ’ And if I were you, 

I would have a drop of brandy — but not half a tumblerful.” 

But neither Lieutenant Ogilvie’s pert common-sense, not 
his apt and accurate quotation, nor the proffered brandy, 
seemed to alter much the mood of this haggard-faced man. 
He rose. 

“ I think I am going now,” said he, in a low voice. “ You 
won’t take it unkindly, Ogilvie, that I don’t stop to talk with 
you : it is a strange story you have told me — I want time to 
think over it. Good-by!” 

“ The fact is, Macleod,” Ogilvie stammered, as he re- 
garded his friend’s face, “ I don’t like to leave you. Won’t 
you stay and dine with our fellows? or shall I see if X can 
run up to London with you ? ” 

“ No, thank yon, Ogilvie,” said he. “ And have you any 
message for the mother and Janet? ” 

“ Oh, I hope you will remember me most kindly to them. 
At least, I will go to the station with you, Macleod.” 

“ Thank you, Ogilvie ; but I would rather go alone. Good- 
by, now.” 

He shook hands with his friend, in an absent sort of way, 
and left. But while yet his hand was on the door, he turned 
and said, — 

“ Oh, do you remember my gun that has the shot barrel 
and the rifle barrel ? ” 

“ Yes, certainly.” 

“ And would you like to have that, Ogilvie ? — we some- 
times had it when we were out together.” 

“ Do you think I would take your gun from you, Mac- 
leod ? ” said the other. “ And you will soon have plenty of 
use for it now.” 

“ Good-by, then, Ogilvie,” said he, and he left, and 
went out into the world of rain, and lowering skies, and 
darkening moors. 

And when he went back to Dare it was a wet day also ; 
but he was very cheerful ; and he had a friendly word for 
all whom he met; and he told the mother and Janet that he 
had got home at last, and meant to go no more a-roving. 
But that evening, after dinner, when Donald began to play 
the Lament for the memory of the five sons of Dare, Mac- 
leod gave a sort of stifled cry, and there were tears running 
down his cheeks — which was a strange thing for a man ; and 
lie rose and left the hall, just as a woman would have done. 
And his mother sat there, cold, and pale, and trembling 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 


33 * 

but the gentle cousin Janet called out, with a piteous trouble 
in her eyes, — 

“ Oh, auntie, have you seen the look on our Keith’s face* 
ever since he came ashore to-day ? ” 

“I know it, Janet,” said she. “ I have seen it. That 
woman has broken his heart ; and he is the last of my six 
brave lads ! ” 

They could not speak any more now ; for Donald had 
come up the hall ; and he was playing the wild, sad wail of 
the Cutnhadh-na- Cloinne. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

A LAST HOPE. 

Those sleepless nights of passionate yearning and de- 
spair — those days of sullen gloom, broken only by wild crav- 
ings for revenge that went through his brain like spasms of 
fire — these were killing this man. His face grew haggard 
and gray ; his eyes morose and hopeless ; he shunned people 
as if he feared their scrutiny; he brooded over the past in a 
silence he did not wish to have broken by any human voice. 
This was no longer Macleod of Dare. It was the wreck of 
a man — drifting no one knew whither. 

And in those dark and morbid reveries there was no 
longer any bewilderment. He saw clearly how he had been 
tricked and played with. He understood now the coldness 
she had shown on coming to Dare ; her desire to get away 
again ; her impatience with his appeals ; her anxiety that 
communication between them should be solely by letter. 
“ Yes, yes,” he would say to himself — and sometimes he 
would laugh aloud in the solitude of the hills, “ she was 
prudent. She was a woman of the world, as Stuart used to 
say, She would not quite throw me oil — she would not be 
quite frank with me — until she had made sure of the other. 
And in her trouble of doubt, when she was trying to be bet- 
ter than hers( If, and anxious to have guidance, that was the 
guide she turned to — the woman-man, the dabbler in paint' 
boxes, the critic of carpets and wall-papers !” 

Sometimes he grew to hate her. She had destroyed the 


33' 2 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


world for him. She had destroyed his faith in the honesty 
and honor of womanhood. She had played with him as with 
a toy — a fancy of the brain — and thrown him aside when 
something new was presented to her. And when a man is 
stung by a white adder, does he not turn and stamp with his 
heel ? Is he not bound to crush the creature out of existence, 
to keep God’s earth and the free sunlight sweet and pure ? 

But then— but then — the beauty of her! In dreams he 
heard her low, sweet laugh again ; he saw the beautiful 
brown hair; he surrendered to the irresistible witchery of 
the clear and lovely eyes. What would not a man give for 
one last, wild kiss of the laughing and half-parted lips ? His 
life ? And if that life happened to be a mere broken and 
useless thing — a hateful thing — would he not gladly and 
proudly fling it away ? One long, lingering, despairing kiss, 
and then a deep draught of Death’s black wine ! 

One day he was riding down to the fishing-station, when 
he met John Macintyre, the postman, who handed him a 
letter, and passed on. Macleod opened this letter with 
some trepidation, for it was from London ; but it was in 
Norman Ogilvie’s handwriting. 

“ Dear Macleod, — I thought you might like to hear the 
latest news. I cut the enclosed from a sort of half-sportjng, 
half-theatrical paper our fellows get; no doubt the paragraph 
is true enough. And I wish it was well over and done with, 
and she married out of hand ; for I know until that is so you 
will be torturing yourself with all sorts of projects and fan- 
cies. Good-by old fellow. I suppose when you offered me 
the gun, you thought your life had collapsed altogether, and 
that you would have no further use for anything. But no 
doubt, after the first shock, you have thought better of that. 
How are the birds? I hear rather bad accounts from Ross, 
but then he is always complaining about something. 

Yours sincerely, Norman Ogilvie. 

And then he unfolded the newspaper cutting which Ogil 
vie had enclosed. The paragraph of gossip announced that 
the Piccadilly Theatre would shortly be closed for repairs ; 
but that the projected provincial tour of the company had 
been abandoned. On the re-opening of the theatre, a play, 
which was now in preparation, written by Mr. Gregory Lem- 
uel, would be produced. “ It is understood,” continued the 
newsman, “ that Miss Gertrude White, the young and gifted 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


333 


actress who has been the chief attraction at the Piccadilly 
Theatre for two years back, is shortly to be married to Mr. 
L. Lemuel, the well-known artist ; but the public have no 
reason to fear the withdrawal from the stage of so popular a 
favorite, for she has consented to take the chief role in the 
new play, which is said to be of a tragic nature.” 

Macleod put the letter and its enclosure into his pocket, 
and rode on. The hand that held the bridle shook some- 
v hat ; that was all. 

He met Hamish. 

“ Oh, Hamish ! ” he cried, quite gayly. “ Hamish, will 
you go to the wedding ? ” 

“What wedding, sir?” said the old man; but well he 
knew. If there was any one blind to what had been going 
on, that was not Hamish ; and again and again he had in his 
heart cursed the English traitress who had destroyed his 
master’s peace. 

“ Why, do you not remember the English lady that was 
here not so long ago ? And she is going to be married. 
And would you like to go to the wedding, Hamish ! ” 

He scarcely seemed to know what he was saying in this 
wild way ; there was a strange look in his eyes, though appa- 
rently he was very merry. And this was the first word he 
had uttered about Gertrude White to any living being at Dare 
ever since his last return from the South. 

Now what was Hamish’s answer to this gay invitation ? 
The Gaelic tongue is almost devoid of those ^meaningless ex- 
pletives which, in other languages, express mere annoyance 
of temper ; when a Plighlander swears, he usually swears in 
English. But the Gaelic curse is a much more solemn and 
deliberate affair. 

“ A fay her soul dwell in the lowermost hall of perdition ! ” 
— that was the answer that Hamish made ; and there was a 
blaze of anger in the keen eyes and in the proud and hand 
some face. 

“ Oh, yes,” continued the old man, in his native tongue, 
and he spoke rapidly and passionately, “ I am only a serving 
man, and perhaps a serving-man ought not to speak ; but 
perhaps sometimes he will speak. And have I not seen it 
all, Sir Keith ? — and no more of the pink letters coming ; 
and you going about a changed man, as if there was nothing 
more in life for you? And now you ask me if I will go to 
the wedding ? And what do I say to you, Sir Keith ? I say 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


334 

this to you — that the woman is not now living who will pui 
that shame on Macleod of Dare ! ” 

Macleod regarded the old man’s angry vehemence almost 
indifferently ; he had grown to pay little heed to anything 
around him. — 

“ Oh yes, it is a fine thing for the English lady,” said 
Hamish, with the same proud fierceness, “to come here and 
amuse herself. But she does not know the Mull men yet. 
Do you think, Sir Keith, that any one of your forefathers 
would have had this shame put upon him ? I think not. I 
think he would have said, ‘ Come, lads, here is a proud 
madam that does not know that a man’s will is stronger than 
a woman’s will ; and we will teach her a lesson. And before 
she has learned that lesson, she will discover that it is not 
safe (o trifle with a Macleod of Dare.’ And you ask me if 
I will go to the wedding ! I have known you since you were 
a child, Sir Keith; and I put the first gun in your hand; and 
I saw you catch your first salmon : it is not right to laugh at 
an old man.” 

“ Laughing at you Hamish ? I gave you an invitation to 
a wedding ! ” 

“ And if I was going to that wedding,” said Hamish, with 
a return of that fierce light to the gray eyes, “ do you know 
how I would go to the wedding ? I would take two or three 
of the young lads with me. We would make a fine party for 
the wedding. Oh yes, a fine party ! And if the English 
church is a fine church, can we not take off our caps as well 
as any one ? But when the pretty madam came in, I would 
say to myself, * Oh yes, my fine madam, you forgot it was a 
Macleod you had to deal with, and not a child, and you did 
not think you would have a visit from two or three of the 
Mull lads!” 

“ And what then?” Macleod said, with a smile, though 
this picture of his sweetheart coming into the church as the 
bride of another man had paled his cheek. 

“ And before she had brought that shame on the house 
of Dare,” said Hamish, excitedly, “ do you not think that I 
would seize her — that I would seize her with my own hands ? 
And when the young lads and I had thrust her down into the 
cabin of the yacht — oh yes, when we had thrust her down 
and put the hatch over, do you think the proud madam would 
be quite so proud ? ” 

Macleod laughed a loud laugh. 

“ Why, Hamish, you want to become a famous person ! 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 335 

You would carry off a popular actress, and have all the coun- 
try ringing with the exploit ! And would you have a piper, 
too, to drown her screams — just as Macdonald of Armadale 
did when he came with his men to South Uist and carried 
off Flora Macdonald’s mother ? ” 

“And was there ever a better marriage than that — as I 
have heard many a man of Skye say? ” Hamish exclaimed, 
eagerly. “ Oh yes, it is good for a woman to know that h 
man’s will is stronger than a woman’s will ! And when we 
have the fine English madam caged up in the cabin, and we 
are coming away to the North again, she will not have so 
many fine airs, I think. And if the will cannot be broken, 
it is the neck that can be broken ; and better that than that 
Sir Keith Macleod should have a shame put on him.” 

“ Hamish, Hamish, how will you dare to go into the church 
at Salen next Sunday ? ” Macleod said ; but he was now re- 
garding the old man with a strange curiosity. 

“ Men were made before churches were thought of,” 
Hamish said, curtly; and then Macleod laughed, and rode 
on. 

The laugh soon died away from his face. Here was the 
stone bridge on which she used to lean to drop pebbles into 
the whirling clear water. Was there not some impression 
even yet of her soft warm arm on the velvet moss ? And 
what had the voice of the streamlet told him in the days long 
ago — that the summertime was made for happy lovers ; that 
she was coming ; that he should take her hand and show her 
the beautiful islands and the sunlit seas before the darkening 
skies of the winter came over them. And here was the 
summer sea ; and moist, warm odors were in the larch-wood ; 
and out there Ulva was shining green, and there was sun- 
light on the islands and on the rocks of Erisgeir. But she 
— where was she ? Perhaps standing before a mirror ; with 
a dress all of white ; and trying how orange-blossoms would 
best lie in her soft brown hair. Her arms are uplifted to her 
head ; she smiles : could not one suddenly seize her now by 
the waist and bear her off, with the smile changed to a 
blanched look of fear? The wild pirates have got her; the 
Rose-leaf is crushed in the cruel Northern hands ; at last — 
at last — what is in the scabbard has been drawn, and de- 
clared, and she screams in her terror ! 

Then he fell to brooding again over Ilamish’s mad 
scheme. The fine English church of Hamish’s imagination 
was no doubt a little stone building that a handful of sailors 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


33 <$ 

could earn,' at a rush. And of course the yacht must need.' 
he close by ; for there was no land in Hamish’s mind thal 
was out of sight of the salt-water. And what consideration 
would this old man have for delicate fancies and studies in 
moral science ? The fine madam had been chosen to be the 
biide of Macleod of Dare; that was enough. If her will 
would not bend, it would have to be broken ; that was the 
good old way. Was there ever a happier wife than the Lad) 
of Armadale, who had been carried screaming downstairs in 
the night-time, and placed in her lover’s boat, with the pipes 
playing a wild pibroch all the time ? 

Macleod was in the library that night when Hamish came 
to him with some papers. And just as the old man was 
about to leave, Macleod said to him, — 

“ Well, that was a pretty story you told me this morning, 
Hamish, about the carrying off the young English lady. And 
have you thought any more about it ? ” 

“ I have thought enough about it,” Hamish said, in his 
native tongue. 

“ Then perhaps you could tell me, when you start on this 
fine expedition, how you are going to have the yacht taken 
to London ? The lads of Mull are very clever, Hamish, I 
know ; but do you think that any one of them can steer the 
U7iipire all the way from Loch-na-Keal to the river Thames ? ” 

“ Is it the river Thames ? ” said Hamish, with great con- 
tempt. “ And is that all — the river Thames ? Do you know 
this, Sir Keith, that my cousin Colin Laing, that has a 
whiskey-shop now in Greenock, has been all over the world, 
and at China and other places ; and he was the mate of many 
a big vessel ; and do you think he could not take the Um- 
pire from Loch-na-Keal to London ? And I would only have 
to send a line to him and say, ‘ Colin, it is Sir Keith Mac- 
leod himself that will want you to do this ; *• and then he will 
leave twenty or thirty shops, ay, fifty and a hundred shops, 
and think no more of them at all. Oh yes, it is very true 
what you say Sir Keith. There is no one knows better 
than I the soundings ir. Loch Scridain and Loch Tua; 
and you have said yourself that there is not a bank or a rock 
about the islands that I do not know ; but I have not been 
to London — no, I have not been to London. But is there 
any great trouble in getting to London ? No, none at all, 
when we have Colin Laing on board.” 

Macleod was apparently making a gay joke of the mat- 
ter ; but there was an anxious, intense look in his eyes all 


MACLP.OD OF DARE. 


337 

the same — even when he was staring absently at the table 
before him. 

“ Oh yes, Hamish,” he said, laughing in a constrained 
manner, “ that would be a fine story to tell. And you would 
become very famous — just as if you were working for fame 
in a theatre ; and all the people would be talking about yen. 
And when you got to London, how would you get through 
the London streets ? ” 

“It is my cousin who would show me the way : has he 
not been to London more times than I have been to Storno- 
way ? ” 

“ But the streets of London — they would cover all the 
ground between here and Loch Scridain ; and how would 
you carry the young lady through them ? ” 

“ We would carry her,” said Hamish, curtly. 

“ With the bagpipes to drown her screams ? ” 

“ I would drown her screams myself,” said Hamish, with 
a sudden savageness ; and he added something that Mac- 
leod did not hear. 

“ Do you know that I am a magistrate, Hamish ? ” 

“ I know it, Sir Keith.” 

“ And when you come to me with this proposal, do you 
know what I should do ? ” 

“ I know what the old Macleods of Dare would have 
done,” said Hamish, proudly, “ before they let this shame 
come on them. And you, Sir Keith — you are a Macleod, 
too ; ay, and the bravest lad that ever was born in Castle 
Dare ! And you will not suffer this thing any longer, Sir 
Keith ; for.it is a sore heart I have from the morning till 
the night ; and it is only a serving-man that I am ; but some- 
times when I will see you going about— -and nothing now 
cared for, but a great trouble on your face — oh, then I say 
to myself, ‘ Hamish, you are an old man, and you have not 
long to live ; but before you die you will teach the fine Eng- 
lish madam what it is to bring a shame on Sir Keith Mac- 
leod !’” 

“ Ah, well, good-night now, Hamish ; I am tired,” he 
said ; and the old man slowly left: 

He was tired — if one might judge by the haggard cheeks 
and the heavy eyes ; but he did not go to sleep. He did 
not even go to bed. He spent the livelong night, as he had 
spent too many lately, in nervously pacing to and fro with- 
in this hushed chamber; or seated with his arms on the 
table, and the aching head resting on the clasped hands. 


MACLEOD OF Dare . 


33 * 

And again those wild visions came to torture him — the prc> 
duct of a sick heart and a bewildered brain; only now there 
was a new element introduced. This mad project of Hamish’s 
at which he would have laughed in a saner mood, began to 
intertwist itself with all these passionate longings and these 
troubled, dreams of what might yet be possible to him on 
eaitii ; and wherever he turned it was suggested to him ; and 
whatever was the craving and desire of the moment, this, 
ami this only, was the way to reach it. For if one were mad 
with pain, and determined to crush the white adder that had 
stung one, what better way than to seize the hateful tiling 
and cage it so that it should do no more harm among the 
sons of men ? Or if one were mad because of the love of a 
beautiful white Princess — and she far away, and dressed in 
bridal robes : what better way than to take her hand and say, 
*’ Quick, quick, to the shore ! For the summer seas are 
waiting for you, and there is a home for the bride far away 
in the North? ” Or if it was only one wild, despairing effort 
—one last means of trying — to bring her heart back again ? 
Or if there was but the one fierce, captured kiss of those 
lips no longer laughing at all ? Men had ventured more for 
far less reward, surely ? And what remained to him in life 
but this ? There was at least the splendid joy of daring and 
action ! 

The hours passed ; and sometimes he fell into a troubled 
sleep as he sat with his head bent on his hands ; but then it 
was only to see those beautiful pictures of her, that made his 
heart ache all the more. And sometimes he saw her all in 
sailor-like white and blue, as she was stepping down from the 
steamer ; and sometimes he saw the merry Duchess 
coming forward through the ballroom, with her saucy eyes 
and her laughing and parted lips ; and sometimes he saw her 
before a mirror; and again she smiled — but his heart would 
fain have cried aloud in its anguish. Then again he would 
start up, and look at the window. Was he impatient for the 
day r 

The lamp still burned in the hushed chamber With 
trembling fingers he took out the letter Ogilvie had written 
to him, and held the slip of printed paper before his bewildered 
gaze. “ The young and gifted actress.” She is “ shortly to 
be married.” And the new piece that all the world will 
come to see, as soon as she is returned frcm her wedding tour, 
is “ of a tragic nature.” 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


339 


HamisTi ! Hamish ! do you hear these tilings ? I)o you 
know what they mean ? Oh, we will have to look sharp if 
we are to be there in time. Come along, you brave lads ! it 
is not the first time that a Macleod has carried off a bride. 
And will she cry, do you think — for we have no pipes to 
drown her screams ? Ah, but we will manage it another way 
than that, Hamish ! You have no cunning, you old man ! 
There will be no scream when the white adder is seized and 
caged. 

******* 

But surely no white adder ? Oh, sweetheart, you gave me 
a red rose ! And do you remember the night in the garden, 
with the moonlight around us, and the favor you wore next 
your heart was the badge of the Macleods ? You were not 
afraid of the Macleods then ; you had no fear of the rude 
Northern people ; you said they would not crush a pale 
Rose-leaf. And now — now — see ! I have rescued you ; and 
those people will persuade you no longer : I have taken you 
away — you are free ! And will you come up on deck now, 
and look around on the summer sea ? And shall we put in 
to some port, and telegraph that the runaway bride is happy 
enough, and that they will hear of her next from Castle 
Dare ? Look around, sweetheart : surely you know the old 
boat. And here is Christina to wait on you ; and Hamish 
— Hamish will curse you no more — he will be your friend 
now. Oh, you will make the mother’s heart glad at last 1 

she has not smiled for many a day. 

******* 

Or is it the proud madam that is below, Hamish ; and 
she will not speak; and she sits alone in all her finery? 
And what are we to do with her now, then, to break her 
will ? Do you think she will speak when she is in the midst 
of the silence of the Northern seas ? Or will they be after 
us, Hamish ? Oh, that would be a fine chase, indeed ! and 
we would lead them a fine dance through the Western Isles ; 
an 1 I think you would try their knowledge of the channels 
and the banks. And the painter-fellow, Hamish, the woman- 
man, the dabbler — would he be in the boat behind us ? or 
would he be down below, in bed in the cabin, with a nurse to 
attend him ? Come along, then ! — but beware of the over- 
falls of Tiree, you southern men ! Or is it a race for Barra 
Head ; and who will be at Vatersay first ! There is good 
fishing-ground on the Sgriobh bhan ; Hamish ; tliev may 
as well stop to fish as seek to catch us among our Western 


340 


MACLEOD OF DA A'E. 


Isles ! See, the dark is coming down ; are these the Monach 
lights in the north ?— Hamish, Hamish, we are on the rocks ! 
— and there is no one to help her! Oh, sweetheait ! sweet- 
heart ! — 

****** * 

The brief fit of struggling sleep is over ; he rises and 
goes to the window; and now, if he is impatient for the new 
day, behold ! the new day is here. Oh, see how the wan 
light of the morning meets the wan face ! It is the face of 
a man who has been close to Death ; it is the face of a man 
who is desperate. And if, after the terrible battle of the 
night, with its uncontrollable yearning and its unbearable 
pain, the fierce and bitter resolve is taken ? — if there remains 
but this one last despairing venture for all that made life 
worth having ? How wildly the drowning man clutches at 
this or that, so only that he may breathe for yet a moment 
more ? He knows not what miracle may save him ; he 
knows not where there is any lard ; but only to live — only 
to breath for another moment — that is his cry. And then, 
mayhap, amidst the wild whirl of waves, if he were suddenly 
to catch sight of the shore ; and think that he was getting 
near to that ; and see awaiting him. there a white Princess, 
with a smile on her lips and a red rose in her outstretched 
hand. Would he not make one Iasi convulsive effort before 
the black waters dragged hf/r ? 


MACLEOD OP DARE. 


34 1 


CHAPTER XLII. 

THE WHITE-WINGED DOVE. 

The mere thought of this action, swift, immediate, im 
petuous, seemed to give relief to the burning brain. He 
went outside, and walked down to the shore ; all the woila 
was asleep ; but the day had broken fair and pleasant, and 
the sea was calm and blue. Was not that a good omen ? 
After all, then, there was still the wild, glad hope that 
Fionaghal might come and live in her Northern home ; the 
summer days had not gone forever; they might still find 
a red rose for her bosom at Castle Dare. 

And then he tried to deceive himself. Was not this a 
mere lover’s stratagem. Was not all fair in love as in war ? 
Surely she would forgive him, for the sake of the great love 
he bore her, and the happiness he would try to bring her all 
the rest of her life ? And no sailor, he would take care, 
would lay his rough hand on her gentle arm. That was the 
folly of Hamish. There was no chance, in these days, for a 
band of Northern pirates to rush into a church and carry off 
a screaming bride. There were other ways than that — 
gentler ways ; and the victim of the conspiracy, why, she 
would only laugh in the happy after-time, and be glad that 
he had succeeded. And meanwhile he rejoiced that so 
much had to be done. Oh yes, there was plenty to think 
about now, other than these terrible visions of the night. 
There was work to do ; and the cold sea-air was cooling the 
fevered brain, so that it all seemed pleasant and easy and glad. 
There was Colin Laing to be summoned from Greenock, 
and questioned. The yacht had to be provisioned for along 
voyage. He had to prepare the mother and Janet lor his 
going away. And might not Norman Ogilvie find out some- 
how when the marriage was to be, so that he would know 
how much time was left him ? 

But with all this eagerness and haste, he kept whispering 
to himself counsels of caution and prudence. He dared not 
awaken her suspicion by professing too much forgiveness 01 
frierdliness. He wrote to her — with what a trembling nand 
he put down those words, Dear Gertrude, on paper, and how 
wistfully he regarded them I — but the letter was a proud and 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


34 * 

cold letter. He said that he had been informed she was 
about to be married ; he wished to ascertain from herself 
whether that was true. He would not reproach her, either 
with treachery or deceit ; if this was true, passionate words 
would not be of much avail. But he would prefer to be 
assured, one way or another, by her own hand. That was 
the substance of the letter. 

And then, the answer ! He almost feared she would not 
write. But when Hamish himself brought that pink envelope 
to him, how his heart beat ! And the old man stood there 
in silence, and with gloom on his face ; was there to be, 
after all, no act of vengeance on her who had betrayed 
Macleod of Dare ? 

These few words seemed to have been written with 
unsteady fingers. He read them again and again. Surely 
there was no dark mystery within them. 

“ Dear Keith, — 1 cannot bear to write to you. I do 
not know how it has all happened. Forgive me, if you can 
and forget me. G.” 

“Oh, Hamish,” said he, with a strange laugh, “it is an 
easy thing to forget that you have been alive ? That would 
be an easy thing, if one were to ask you ? But is not Colin 
Laing coming here to-day ? ” 

“ Oh yes, Sir Keith,” Hamish said, with his eyes lighting ' 
up eagerly ; “ he will be here with the Pioneer , and I will 
send the boat out for him. Oh yes, and. you are wanting to 
see him, Sir Keith ? ” 

. “ Why, of course ! ” Macleod said. “If we are going 
away on a long voyage, do we not want a good pilot ? ” 

“ And we are going, Sir Keith ? ” the old man said ; and 
there was a look of proud triumph in the keen face. 

“ Oh, I do not know yet,” Macleod said, impatiently. 
“But you will tell Christina that, if we are going away to 
the South, we may have lady-visitors come on board, some 
day or another ; and she would be better than a young lass 
to look after them, and make them comfortable on board. 
And if there is any clothes or ribbons she may want from 
Salen, Donald can go over with the pony ; and you will not 
spare any money, Hamish, for I will give you the money.” 

“Very well, sir.” 

“ And you will not send the boat out to the Pioneer till I 
give you a letter- and you will ask the <derk to be so kind 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


343 

as to post it for me to-night at Oban : and he must not forget 
that.” 

“ Very well, sir,” said Hamish ; and he left the room, with 
a determined look about his lips, but with a glad light in his 
eyes. 

This was the second letter that Macleod wrote ; and he 
had to keep whispering to himself “ Caution ! caution ! ” or 
he would have broken into some wild appeal to his sweet 
heart far away. 

“ Dear Gertrude,” he wrote, “I gather from your note 
that it is true you are going to be married. I had heard some 
time ago, so your letter was no great shock to me ; and what 
1 have suffered — well, that can be of no interest to you now, 
and it will do me no good to recall it. As to your message, 
I would forgive you freely ; but how can I forget ? Can you 
forget ? Do you remember the red rose ? But that is all 
over now', I suppose ; and I should not wonder if I were 
after all, to be able to obey you, and to forget very thor 
oughly — not that alone, but everything else. For I have 
been rather ill of late — more through sleeplessness than any 
other cause, 1 think ; and they say I must go for a long sea- 
voyage ; and the mother and Janet both say I should be more 
at home in the old Umpire, with Hamish and Christina, and 
my own people round me, than in a steamer ; and so 1 may 
not hear of you again until you are separated from me forever. 
But I write now to ask you if you would like your letters re- 
turned, and one or two keepsakes, and the photographs. I 
would not like them to fall into other hands ; and sometimes 
1 feel so sick at heart that I doubt whether I shall ever again 
get back to Dare. There are some flowers, too ; but I would 
ask to be allowed to keep them, if you have no objection ; 
and the sketch of Ulva, that you made on the deck of the 
l^mpire, when we were coming back from Iona, I would like 
to keep that, if you have no objection. And 1 remain your 
Uithful friend, 

“ Keith Macleod.” 

Now, at the moment he was writing this letter, Lady Mac- 
leod and her niece were together ; the old lady at her spin- 
ning-wheel, the younger one sewing ; and Janet Macleod was 
saying, — 

" “ Oh, auntie, I am so glad Keith is going away now in 
tlie \acht ! and you must not be vexed at all ot troubled »f he 


344 


MACLEOD OF DARE 


stays a long time ; for what else can make hirn well again ? 
Why, you know that he has not been Keith at all of late. — he 
is quite another man — I do not think any one would recog' 
nize him. And surely there can be no better cure for sleep- 
lessness than the rough work of the yachting ; and you know 
Keith will take his share, in despite of Hamish ; and if he 
goes away to the South, they will have watches, and he will 
take his watch with the others, and his turn at the helm. Oh, 
you will see the change when he comes back to us ! ” 

The old lady’s eyes had slowly filled with tears. 

“ And do you think it is sleeplessness, Janet,” said she, 
that is the matter with our Keith ? Ah, but you know better 
than that, Janet.” 

Janet Macleod’s face grew suddenly red; but she said, 
hastily, — 

“ Why, auntie, have I not heard him walking up and down 
all the night, whether it was in his own room or in the 
library ? And then he is out before any one is up oh yes, I 
know that when you cannot sleep the face grows white and 
the eyes grow tired. And he has not been himself at all — 
going away like that from every one, and having nothing to 
say, and going away by himself over the moors. And it was 
the night before last he came back from Kinlock, and he was 
wet through, and he only lay down on the bed, as Hamish 
told me, and would have slept there all the night, but for 
Hamish. And do you not think that was to get sleep at last 
that he had been walking so far, and coming through the 
shallows of Loch Scridain, too? Ah, but you will see the 
difference, auntie, when he comes back on board the Umpire , , 
and we will go down to the shore, and we will be glad to see 
him that day.” 

“Oh yes, Janet,” the old lady said, and the tears were 
running down her face, “ but you know — you know. And if 
he had married you, Janet, and stayed at home at Dare, there 
would have been none of all this trouble. And now — wdiat 
is there now ? It is the young English lady that has broken 
his heart ; and he is no longer a son to me, and he is no 
longer your cousin, Janet ; but a broken-hearted man, that 
does not care for anything. And you are very kind, Janet; 
and you would not say any harm of any one. But I am his 
mother — I — I — well, if the woman was to come here this 
day, do you think I would not speak ? It w-as a bad day for 
us all that he went away — instead of marrying you, Janet.” 

“ But you know that could never have been, auntie,” said 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


345 

the gencle-eyed cousin, though there was some conscious 
flush of pride in her cheeks. “ I could never have married 
Keith.” 

“ But why, Janet ? ” 

“ You have no right to ask me, auntie. But he and I — 
we did not care for each other — I mean, we never could have 
been married. I hope you will not speak about that any 
more, auntie.” 

“ And some day they will take me, too, away from Dare,” 
said the old dame, and the spinning-wheel was left unheeded ; 
“ and I cannot go into the grave with my five brave lads — for 
where are they all now, Janet? — in Arizona one, in Africa 
one, and two in the Crimea, and my brave Hector at Konig- 
gratz. But that is not much ; I shall be meeting them all to- 
gether : and do you not think I shall be glad to see them all 
together again just as it was in the old days ; and they will 
come to meet me ; and they will be glad enough to have the 
mother with them once again. But, Janet, Janet, how can I 
go to them ? What will 1 say to them when they ask about 
Keith — about Keith, my Benjamin, my youngest, my hand- 
some lad ? ” 

The old woman was sobbing bitterly; and Janet went to 
her and put her arms round her, and said, — 

“ Why, auntie, you must not think of such things. You 
will send Keith away in low spirits, if you have not a bright 
face and a smile for him when he goes away.” 

“ But you do not know — you do not know,” the old wo- 
man said, “ what Keith has done for me. The others — oh 
yes, they were brave lads ; and very proud of their name, 
too ; and they would not disgrace their name, wherever they 
went ; and if they died — that is nothing : for they will be 
together again now, and what harm is there ? But Keith, he 
was the one that did more than any of them ; for he stayed 
at home for my sake ; and when other people were talking 
about this regiment and that regiment, Keith would not tell 
me what was sore at his heart ; and never once did he say, 
1 Mother, I must go away like the rest,’ though it was in his 
blood to go away. And what have I done now ? — and what 
am I to say to his brothers when they come to ask me ? I 
will say to them, ‘ Oh yes, he was the handsomest of all my 
six lads : and he had the proudest heart, too ; but I kept him 
at home — and what came of it all ? ’ Would it not be better 
now that he was lying buried in the jungle of the Gold 
Coast, or at Koniggratz, or in the Crimea?” 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


34b 

“ Oh, surely not, auntie ! Keith will come bav.K to us 
soon ; and when you see him well and strong again, and 
when you hear his laugh about the house, surely you will not 
be wishing that he was in his grave ? Why, what is the 
matter with you to-day, auntie ? ” 

“ The others did not suffer much, Janet, and to three of 
them, anyway, it was only a bullet, a cry, and then the death 
sleep of a brave man and the grave of a Macleod. but 
Keith, Janet — he is my youngest — he is nearer to my heart 
than any of them : do you not see his face ? ” 

“ Yes, auntie,” Janet Macleod said, in a low voice ; “ but 
he will get over that. He will come back to us strong and 
well .” 

“Oh yes, he will come back to us strong and well !” said 
the old lady, almost wildly, and she rose, and her face was 
pale. “ But I think it is a good thing for that woman that 
my other sons are all away now ; for they had quick tempers, 
those lads ; and they would not like to see their brother mur- 
dered.” 

“ Murdered, auntie ! ” 

Lady Macleod would have answered in the same wild, 
passionate way ; but at this very moment her son entered. 
She turned quickly ; she almost feared to meet the look of 
this haggard face. But Keith Macleod said, quite cheer- 
fully,— 

“Well now, Janet, and will you go round to-day to look 
at the Umpire ? And will you come too, mother ? Oh, she 
is made very smart now; just as if we were all going away 
to see the Queen.” 

“I cannot go to-day, Keith,” said his mother ; and she 
left the room before he had time to notice that she was 
strangely excited. 

“ And I think I will go some other day, Keith,” his 
cousin said, gently, “ just before you start, that 1 may be 
sure you have not forgotten anything. And, of course, you 
will take the ladies’ cabin, Keith, for yourself ; for there is 
more light in that, and it is farther away from the smell ot 
the cooking in the morning. And how can you be going to- 
day, Keith, when it is the man from Greenock will be here 
soon now ? ” 

“ Why, I forgot that, Janet,” said he, laughing in a ner- 
vous way — “ I forgot that, though I was talking to Hamish 
about him only a little while ago. And I think I might as 
well go out to meet the Pioneer myself, if the boat has not 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


347 

left yei. Is there anything you would like to get from Oban, 
Janet ? ” 

“ No, nothing, thank you, Keith,” said she ; and then 
he left ; and he was in time to get into the big sailing-boat 
before it went out to meet the steamer. 

This cousin of Hamish, who jumped into the boat when 
Macleod’s letter had been handed up to the clerk, was a lit* 
tie, black-haired Celt, beady-eyed, nervous, but with the 
affectation of a sailor’s bluffness, and he wore rings in his 
ears. However, when he was got ashore, and taken into the 
library, Macleod very speedily found out that the man had 
some fair skill in navigation, and that he had certainly been 
into a good number of ports in his lifetime. And if one 
were taking the Umpire into the mouth of the Thames, now ? 
Mr. Lang looked doubtfully at the general chart Macleod 
had ; he said he would rather have a special chart, which he 
could get at Greenock ; for there were a great many banks 
about the mouth of the Thames ; and he was not sure that 
he could remember the channel. And if one wished to go 
farther up the river, to some anchorage in communication by 
rail with London ? Oh yes, there was Erith. And if one 
would rather have moorings than an anchorage, so that one 
might slip away without trouble when the tide and wind were 
favorable ? Oh yes, there was nothing simpler than that. 
There were many yachts about Erith ; and surely the pier- 
master could get the Umpire the loan of moorings. All 
through Castle Dare it was understood that there was no 
distinct destination marked down for the Umpire on this sud- 
denly-arranged voyage of hers ; but all the same Sir Keith 
Macleod’s inquiries went no farther, at present at least, than 
the river Thames. 

There came another letter in dainty pink ; and this time 
there was less trembling in the handwriting, and there was a 
greater frankness in the wording af the note. 

“ Dear Keith,” Miss White wrote, “ I would like to 
have the letters ; as for the little trifles you mention, it does 
not much matter. You have not said that you forgive me ; 
perhaps it is asking too much ; but believe me you will find 
some day it was all for the best. It is better now than later 
on. I had my fears from the beginning; did not I tell you 
that I was never sure of myself for a day ? and I am sure 
papa warned me. T cannot make you any requital for the 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


343 

great generosity and forbearance you show to me now ; but 
I would like to be allowed to remain your friend. G. W.” 

“ P.S. — I am deeply grieved to hear of your being 111, but 
hope it is only something quite temporary. You could not 
have decided better than on taking a long sea-voyage. I 
hope you will have fine weather.” 

All this was very pleasant. They had got into the regiia 
of correspondence again ; and Miss White was then mistress 
of the situation. His answer to her was less cheerful in tone, 
ft ran thus : 

“ Dear Gertrude, — To-morrow morning I leave Dare. 
1 have made up your letters, etc., in a packet ; but as I 
would like to see Norman Ogilvie before going farther south, 
it is possible that we may run into the Thames for a day ; 
and so I have taken the packet with me, and, if I see Ogilvie, 
I will give it to him to put into your hands. And as this 
may be the last time that I shall ever write to you, I may tell 
you now there is no one anywhere more earnestly hopeful 
than I that you may live a long and happy life, not troubled 
by any thinking of what is past and irrevocable. Yours 
faithfully, Keith Macleod.” 

So there was an end of correspondence. And now came 
this beautiful morning, with a fine northwesterly breeze 
blowing, and the Umpire, with her mainsail and jib set, and 
her gray pennon and ensign fluttering in the wind, rocking 
gently down there at her moorings. It was an auspicious 
morning ; of itself it was enough to cheer up a heartsick 
man. The white sea-birds were calling ; and Ulva was 
shining green ; and the Dutchman’s Cap out there was of a 
pale purple-blue ; while away in the south there was a vague 
silver mist of heat lying all over the Ross of Mull and Iona. 
And the proud lady of Castle Dare and Janet, and one or 
two others more stealthily, were walking down to the pier to 
see Keith Macleod set sail ; but Donald was not there— 
there was no need for Donald or his pipes on board the 
yacht. Donald was up at the house, and looking at the 
people going down to the quay, and saying bitterly to him- 
self, “ It is no more thought of the pipes, now, that Sir 
Keith has, ever since the English lady was at Dare ; and 
he thinks I am better at work in looking after the dogs.” 

Suddenly Macleod stopped, and took out a pencil and 
wrote something on a card. 

“I was sure I had forgotten something, Janet,” said he. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


349 

M That is the address of Johnny Wickes’s mother. We were 
to sent him up to see her some time before Christmas.” 

“ Before Christmas !” Janet exclaimed ; and she looked 
at him in amazement. “ But you are coming back before 
Christmas, Keith ! ” 

“Oh, well, Janet,” said he carelessly, “you know that 
when one goes away on a voyage it is never certain about 
your coming back at all, and it is better to leave everything 
right.” 

“ But you are not going away from us with thoughts like 
those in your head, surely ? ” the cousin said. “ Why, the 
man from Greenock says you could go to America in the 
Umpire ; and if you could go to America, there will not be 
much risk in the calmer seas of the South. And you know, 
Keith, auntie and I don’t want you to trouble about writing 
letters to us ; for you will have enough trouble in looking 
after the yacht ; but you will send us a telegram from the 
various places you put into.” 

“ Oh yes, I will do that,” said he somewhat absently. 
Even the bustle of departure and the brightness of the morn- 
ing had failed to put color and life into the haggard face and 
the hopeless eyes. 

That was a sorrowful leave-taking at the shore ; and 
Macleod, standing on the deck of the yacht, could see long 
after they had set sail, thac his mother and cousin were still 
on the small quay watching the Umpire so long as she was 
in sight. Then they rounded the Ross of Mull, and he saw 
no more of the women of Castle Dare. 

And this beautiful white sailed vessel that is going south 
through the summer seas : surely she is no deadly instrument 
of vengeance, but only a messenger of peace ? Look, now 
how she has passed through the Sound of Iona ; and the 
white sails are shining in the light ; and far away before her, 
instead of islands with which she is familiar, are other islands 
• — another Colonsay altogether, and Islay, and Jura, and 
Scarba, all a pale transparent blue. And what will the men 
on the lonely Dubh-Artach rock think of her as they see hei 
pass by ? Why, surely that she looks like a beautiful white 
dove. It is a summer day ; the winds are soft ; fly south, 
then, White Dove, and carry to her this message of tender- 
ness, and entreaty, and peace ? Surely the gentle ear will 
listen to you, before the winter comes and the skies grow 
dark overhead, and there is no white dove at all, but an 
angry sea-eagle, with black wings outspread and talons ready 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


35 ^ 

to strike, Oh, what is the sound in the summer air ? Is it 
the singing of the sea-maiden of Colonsay, bewailing still 
the loss of her lovers in other years? We cannot stay to 
listen ; the winds are fair ; fly southward, and still southward, 
oh >’ ou beautiful White Dove, and it is all a message of love 
and of peace that you will whisper to her ear. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

DOVE, OR SEA-EAGLE? 

But there are no fine visions troubling the mind of Ham* 
ish as he stands here by the tiller in eager consultation with 
Colin Laing, who has a chart outspread before him on the 
deck. There is pride in the old man’s face. He is proud 
of the performances of the yacht he has sailed for so many 
years ; and proud of himself for having brought her — always 
subject to the advice of his cousin from Greenock — in safety 
through the salt sea to the smooth waters of the great river. 
And, indeed, this is a strange scene for the Umpire to find 
around her in the years of her old age. For instead of the 
giant cliffs of Gribun and Bourg there is only the thin green 
line of the Essex coast ; and instead of the rushing Atlantic 
there is the broad smooth surface of this coffee-colored stream, 
splashed with blue where the ripples catch the reflected light 
of the sky. There is no longer the solitude of Ulva and 
Colcnsay, or the moaning of the waves round the lonely 
shores of Fladda, and Staffa, and the Dutchman; but the 
eager, busy life of the great river — a black steamer puffing 
ind roaring, russet-sailed barges going smoothly with the 
tide, a tug bearing a large green-hulled Italian ship through 
the lapping waters, and everywhere a swarming fry of small 
boa<s of every description. It is a beautiful summer morn- 
ing, though there is a pale haze lying along the Essex woods. 
The old Unjpire, with the salt foam of the sea incrusted on 
her bows, is making her first appearance in the Thames. 

“ And where are we going, Hamish,” says Colin Laing, 
in the Gaelic, * when we leave this place ? ” 

“When you are told, then you will know,” says Hamish. 

“You had enough talk of it last night in the cabin. I 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


35 * 

thought you were never coming out of the cabin,” says the 
cousin from Greenock. 

“ And if I have a master, I obey my master without 
speaking,” Hamish answers. 

“ Weil, it is a strange master you have got. Oh, you do 
not know about these things, Hamish. Do you know what 
a gentleman who has a yacht would do when he got into 
Gravesend as we got in last night? Why, he would go 
ashore, and have his dinner in a hotel, and drink four or five 
different kinds of wine, and go to the theatre. But your 
master, Hamish, what does he do ? He stays on board, 
and sends ashore for time-tables and such things ; and what 
is more than that, he is on deck all night, walking up and 
down. Oh yes ; I heard him walking up and down all night, 
with the yacht lying at anchor ! ” 

“ Sir Keith is not well. When a man is not well he does 
not act in an ordinary way. But you talk of my master,” 
Hamish answered, proudly. “ Well, I will tell you about my 
master, Colin — that lie is a better master than any ten thou- 
sand masters that ever were born in Greenock, or in London 
either. I will not allow any man to say anything against my 
master.” 

“ I was not saying anything against your master. He is 
a wiser man than you, Hamish. For he was saying to me last 
night, ‘ Now, when I am sending Hamish to such and such 
places in London, you must go with him, and show him the 
trains, and cabs, and other things like that.’ Oh yes, Hamish, 
you know how to sail a yacht; but you do not know anything 
about towns ? ” 

“ And who would want to know anything about towns ? 
Are they not full of people who live by telling lies and cheat- 
ing each other? ” 

“ And do you say that is how I have been able to buy 
my house at Greenock,” said Colin Laing, angrily, “ with a 
garden, and a boathouse, too ? ” 

“ I do not know about that,” said Hamish ; and then he 
called out some order to one of the men. Macleod was at 
this moment down in the saloon, seated at the table, with a 
letter enclosed and addressed lying before him. But surely 
this was not the same man who had been in these still waters 
of the Thames in the bygone days — with gay companions 
around him, and the band playing “A Highland Lad my 
Love was born,” and a beautiful-eyed girl, whom he called 
Rose-leaf, talking to him in the quiet of the summer noon. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


35 * 

This man had a look in his eyes like that of an animal that 
has been hunted to death, and is fain to lie down and give 
itself up to its pursuers in the despair of utter fatigue. He 
was looking at this letter. The composition of it had cost 
him only a whole night’s agony. And when he sat lown and 
wrote it in the blue-gray dawn, what had he not cast away ? 

“ Oh no,” he was saying now to his own conscience, “ she 
will not call it deceiving ! She will laugh when it is all ovei 
— sne will call it a stratagem — she will say that a drowning 
man will catch at anything. And this is the last effort — but 
it is only a stratagem : she herself will absolve me, when she 
laughs and says, ‘Oh, how could you have treated the poor 
theatres so ? ’ ” 

A loud rattling overhead startled him. 

“ We must be at Erith,” he said to himself ; and then, after 
a pause of a second, he took the letter in his hand. He 
passed up the companion-way. Perhaps it was the sudden 
glare of the light around that falsely gave to his eyes the ap- 
pearance of a man who had been drinking hard ; but his 
voice was clear and precise as he said to Hamish, — 

“ Now, Hamish, you understand everything I have told 
you ? ” 

“ Oh yes, Sir Keith.” 

“ And you will put away that nonsense from your head ; 
and when you see the English lady that you remember, you 
will be very respectful to her, for. she is a very great friend 
of mine ; and if she is not at the theatre, you will go on to 
the other address, and Colin Laing will go with you in the 
cab. And if she comes back in the cab, you and Colin will 
go outside beside the driver, do you understand ? And when 
you go ashore, you will take John Cameron with you, and you 
will ask the pier-master about the moorings.” 

“ Oh yes, Sir Keith ; have you not told me before ? ” 
Hamish said, almost reproachfully. 

“ You are sure you got everything on board last night ? ” 

“ There is nothing more that I can think of, Sir Keith.” 

“ Here is the letter, Hamish.” 

And so he pledged himself to the last desperate venture. 

Not long after that Hamish, and Laing, and John Cam- 
eron went in the dingy to the end of Erith pier, and left the 
boat there ; and went along to the head of the pier, and had 
a talk -with the pier-master. Then John Cameron went back, 
and the other two went on their way to the railway-station. 

“And I will tell you this, Hamish,” said the little black 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 353 

Celt, who swaggered a good deal in his walk, “ that when you 
go in the train you will be greatly frightened ; for you do not 
know how strong the engines are, and how they will carry 
you through the air.” 

“ That is a foolish thing to say,” answered Hamish, also 
speaking in the Gaelic ; “ for I have seen many pictures of 
trains ; and do you say that the engines are bigger than the 
engines of the Pioneer , or the Dunara Castle, or the Clans- 
man that goes to Stornoway ? Do not talk such nonsense to 
me. An engine that runs along the road, that is a small 
matter ; but an engine that can take you up the Sound of 
Sleat, and across the Minch, and all the way to Stornoway, 
that is an engine to be talked about ! ” 

But nevertheless it was with some inward trepidation that 
Hamish approached Erith station ; and it was with an awe- 
struck silence that he saw his cousin take tickets at the office ; 
nor did he speak a word when the train came up and they 
entered and sat down in the carriage. Then the train moved 
off, and Hamish breathed more freely : what was this to be 
afraid of ? 

“ Did I not tell you you would be frightened ? ” Colin 
Laing said. 

“ I am not frightened at all,” Hamish answered, indig- 
nantly. 

But as the train began to move more quickly, Hamish’s 
hands, that held firmly by the wooden seat on which he was 
sitting, tightened and still further tightened their grasp, and 
his teeth got clinched, while there was an anxious look in his 
eyes. At length, as the train swung into a good pace, his 
fear got the better of him, and he called out, — 

u Colin, Colin, she’s run away ? ” 

And then Colin Laing laughed aloud, and began to as- 
sume great airs ; and told Hamish that he was no better than 
a lad kept for herding the sheep, who had never been away 
from his own home. This familiar air reassured Hamish ; and 
then the train stopping at Abbey Wood proved to him that 
the engine was still under control. 

“ Oh yes, Hamish,” continued his travelled cousin, “ you 
will open your eyes when you see London ; and you will tell 
all the people when you go back that you have never seen so 
great a place ; but what is London to the cities and the towns 
and the palaces that 1 have seen ? Did you ever hear of 
Valparaiso, Hamish ? Oh yes, you will live a long time be- 
fore you will get to Valparaiso! And Rio: why, I have 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


354 

known raere boys that have been to Rio. Aqfl you can sad 
a yacht very well, Hamish ; and I do not grumble that you 
would be the master of the yacht, though I know the banks 
and the channels a little better than you, and it was quite 
right of you to be the master of the yacht ; but you have not 
seen what I have seen. And I have been where there are 
mountains and mountains of gold — ” 

“ Do you take me for a fool, Colin? ” said Hamish, with 
a contemptuous smile. 

“ Not quite that,” said the other, “ but am I not to be- * 
lieve my own eyes ? ” 

“ And if there were the great mountains of gold,” said 
Hamish, “ why did you not fill your pockets will! the gold ? 
and would not that be better than selling whiskey in Green- 
ock ? ” 

“ Yes ; and that shows what an ignorant man you are, 
Hamish,” said the other, with disdain. “ For do you not 
know that the gold is mixed with quartz and you have got 
to take the quartz out ? But I dare say now you do 
not know what quartz is ; for it is a very ignorant man 
you are, although you can sail a yacht. But I do not 
grumble at all. You are master of your own yacht, just 
as I am the master of my own shop. But if you were 
coming into my shop, Hamish, I would say to you, * Hamish, 
you are the master here, and I am not the master ; and you 
can take a glass of anything that you like/ That is what 
people who have travelled all over the world, and seen 
princes and great cities and palaces, call politeness. Beit how 
could you know anything about politeness? You have lived 
only on the west coast of Mull ; and they do not even know 
how to speak good Gaelic there.” 

“ That is a lie, Colin ! ” said Hamish, with decision. 
“ We have better Gaelic there than any other Gaelic that is 
' spoken.” 

“ Were you ever in Lochaber, Hamish ? ” j 

“ No, I was never in Lochaber.” i 

“ Then do not pretend to give an opinion about the Gaelic 
— especially to a man who has travelled all over the world, 
though perhaps he cannot sail a yacht as well as you, Ham- 
ish.” 

The two cousins soon became friends again, however. 
And now, as they were approaching London, a strange thing 
became visible. The blue sky grew more and more obscured 


MACLEOD OF DA EE 


355 

The \vh Die world seemed to be enveloped in a clear brown 
haze of smoke. 

“ Ay, ay,” said Hamish, “that is a strange thing.” 

“ What is a strange thing, Hamish ? ” 

“ I was reading about it in a book many a time — the 
great fire that was burning in London for years and years 
and } ears, and have they not quite got it out yet, Colin ? ” 

“ I do not know what you are talking about, Hamish,” 
said the other, who had not much book-learning, “ but I will 
tell you this, that you may prepare yourself now to open 
your eyes. Oh yes, Londoh will make you open your eyes 
wide ; though it is nothing to one who has been to Rio, and 
Shanghai, and Rotterdam, and other places like that.” 

Now these references to foreign parts only stung Ham- 
ish’s pride, and when they did arrive at London Bridge he 
was determined to show no surprise whatever. He stepped 
into the four-wheeled cab that Colin Laing chartered, just as 
if four-wheeled cabs were as common as sea-gulls on the 
shores of Loch-na-Keal. And though his eyes were be- 
wildered and his ears dinned with the wonderful sights and 
sounds of this great 1 oaring city — that seemed to have the 
population of all the world pouring through its streets — he 
would say nothing at all. At last the cab stopped ; the two 
men were opposite the Piccadilly Theatre. 

Then Hamish got out and left his cousin with the cab. 
He ascended the wide steps ; he entered the great vestibule ; 
and he had a letter in his hand. The old man had not trem 
bled so much since he was a schoolboy. 

“ What do you want, my man ? ” some one said, coming 
out of the box-office by chance. 

Hamish showed the letter. 

“ I wass to hef an answer, sir if you please, sir, and 1 
will be opliged,” said Hamish, who had been enjoined tc be 
very courteous. 

“Take it round to the stage entrance,” said the man, 
carelessly. 

“ Yes, sir, if you please, sir,” said Hamish ; but he did 
not understand ; and he stood. 

The man looked at him ; called for some one ; a young 
lad came, and to him was given the letter. 

“ You may wait here, then,” said he to Hamish ; “but I 
think rehearsal is over, and Miss White has most likely gone 
home.” 

The man went into the box-office again ; Hamish was left 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


356 

alone there, in the great empty vestibule. The Piccadilly 
Theatre had seldom seen within its walls a more picturesque 
figure than this old Highlandman, who stood there with his 
sailor’s cap in his hand, and with a keen excitement in the 
proud and fine face. There was a watchfulness in the gray 
eyes like the watchfulness of an eagle. If he twisted his cap 
rather nervously, and if his heart beat quick, it was not from 
fear. 

Now, when the letter was brought to Miss White, she was 
standing in one of the wings, laughing and chatting with the 
stage manager. The laugh went from her face. She grew 
quite pale. 

“ Oh, Mr. Cartwright,” said she, “ do you think I could 
go down to Erith and be back before six in the evening ? ” 

“ Oh yes, why not ? ” said he carelessly. 

But she scarcely heard him. She was still staring at that 
sheet of paper, with its piteous cry of the sick man. Only to 
see her once more — to shake hands in token of forgiveness 
— to say good-by for the last time : what woman with the 
heart of a woman could resist this despairing prayer ? 

“ Where is the man who brought this letter ? ” said she. 

“ In front, miss,” said the young lad, “ by the box-office.” 

Very quickly she made her way along the gloomy and 
empty corridors, and there in the twilit hall she found the 
gray-haired old sailor, with his cap held humbly in his hands 

“ Oh, Hamish,” said she, “ is Sir Keith so very ill ? ” 

“Is it ill, mem? ’’said Hamish; and quick tears sprang 
to the old man’s eyes. “ He iss more ill than you can think 
of, mem ; it iss another man that he iss now. Ay, ay, who 
would know him to be Sir Keith Macleod ? ” 

“ He wants me to go and see him ; and I suppose I have 
no time to go home first — ” 

“ Here is the list of the trains, mem,” said Hamish, eng- 
•ily, producing a certain card. “And it iss me and Colin 
Laing, that’s my cousin, mem ; and we hef a cab outside ; 
and will you go to the station ? Oh, you will not know Sir 
Keith, mem ; there iss no one at all would know my master 
now.” 

“ Come along, then, Hamish,” said she, quickly. “ Oh, 
but he cannot be so ill as that. And the long sea-voyage will 
pull him round, don’t you think ? ” 

“ Ay, ay, mem,” said Hamish ; but he was paying little 
heed. He called up the cab, and Miss White stepped inside, 
and he anu Colin Laing got on the box. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


357 


*• Tell him to go quickly,” she said to Hamish, “ foi l 
must have something instead of luncheon if we have a minute 
at the station.” 

And Miss White, as the cab rolled away, felt pleased with 
herself. It was a brave act. 

“ It is the least I can do for the sake of my bonny Glen- 
og.e,” she was saying to herself, quite cheerfully. “ And if 
Mr. Lemuel were to hear of it? Well, he must know that T 
mean to be mistress of my own conduct. And so the poor 
Glenogie is really ill. I can do no harm in parting good 
friends with him. Some men would have made a fuss.” 

At the station they had ten minutes to wait ; and Miss 
White was able to get the slight refreshment she desired. 
And although Hamish would fain have kept out of her way 
— for it was not becoming in a rude sailor to be seen speak- 
ing to so fine a lady — she would not allow that. 

“ And where are you going, Hamish, when you leave the 
Thames ? ” she asked, smoothing the fingers of the glove she 
had just put on again. 

“ I do not know that, mem,” said he. 

“ I hope Sir Keith won’t go to Torquay or any of those 
languid places. You will go to the Mediterranean, I sup- 
pose ? ” 

“ Maybe that will be the place, mem,” said Hamish. 

“ Or the Isle of Wight, perhaps,” said she, carelessly. 

“ Ay, ay, mem — the Isle of Wight — that will be a ferry good 
place, now. There wass a man I wass seeing once in Tob- 
bermorry, and he wass telling me about the castle that the 
Queen herself will hef on that island. And Mr. Ross, the 
Queen’s piper, he will be living there too. 

But, of course, they had to part company when the train 
came up ; and Hamish and Colin Laing got into a third-class 
carriage together. The cousin from Greenock had been 
hanging rather in the background ; but he had kept his ears 
open. 

“ Now, Hamish,” said he, in the tongue in which they 
could both speak freely enough, “ I will tell you something; 
and do not think I am an ignorant man, for I know what is 
going on. Oh yes. And it is a great danger you are running 
into.” 

“ What do you mean, Colin ? ” said Hamish ; but he would 
look out of the window. 

“ When a gentleman goes away in a yacht, does he take 
an old woman like Christina with him ? Oh no ; T think not. 


MACLEOD OF DA*RE. 


358 

Tt is not a customary thing. And the ladies’ cabin; the 
ladies’ cabin is kept very smart, Hamish. And I think I 
know who is to have the ladies’ cabin ? ” 

“Then you are very clever, Colin,” said Hamish, con- 
temptously. “ But it is too clever you are. You think it 
strange that the young English lady should take that cabin. 
I will tell you this — that it is not the first time nor the second 
time that the young English lady has gone for a voyage in 
the Umpire, and in that very cabin too. And I will tell you 
this, Colin; that it is this very year she had that cabin ; and 
was in Loch Tua, and Loch-na-Keal, and Loch Scridain, 
and Calgary Bay. And as for Christina — oh, it is much 
you know about fine ladies in Greenock ! I tell you 
that an English lady cannot go anywhere without some 
one to attend to her.” 

“ Hamish, do not try to make a fool of me,” said Laing 
angrily. “ Do you think a lady would go travelling without 
any luggage ? And she does not know where the Umpire is 
going ! ” 

“ Do you know ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Very well, then. It is Sir Keith Macleod who is the 
master when he is on board the Umpire , and where he wants 
to go the others have to go.” 

“ Oh, do you think that ? And do you speak like that 
to a man who can pay eighty-five pounds a year of rent ? ” 

“ No, I do not forget that it is a kindness to me that you 
are doing, Colin ; and to Sir Keith Macleod, too ; and he 
will not forget it. But as for this young lady, or that young 
lady% what has that to do with it ? You know what the bell 
of Scoon said, “ That which concerns you not , meddle not 
with.' ” 

“ I shall be glad when I am back in Greenock,” said 
Colin Laing, moodily. 

But was not ‘this a fine, fair scene that Miss Gertiude 
White saw around her when they came in sight of the river 
and Erith pier? — the flashes of blue on the water, the white- 
sailed yachts, the russet-sailed barges, and the sunshine 
shining all along the thin line of the Essex shore. The 
moment she set foot on the pier she recognized the Umpire 
lying out there, the great white mainsail and jib idly flapping 
in the summer breeze : but there was no one on deck. And 
she was not afraid at all ; for had he not written in ho kindlj 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


359 

a fashion to her ; and was she not doing much for his sake, 
too ? ” 

“ Will the shock be great ? ” she was thinking to herself. 
“ I hope my bonnie Glenogie is not so ill as that ; for he 
always looked like a man. And it is so much better that 
we should part good friends.” 

She turned to Hamish. 

“ There is no one on the deck of the yacht, Hamish,'* 
said she. 

“ No, mem,” said he, “ the men will be at the end of the 
pier, mem, in the boat, if you please, mem.” 

“ Then you took it for granted I should come back with 
you ? ” said she, with a pleasant smile. 

. “ I wass thinking you would come to see Sir Keith, mem,” 
said Hamish, gravely. His manner was very respectful to 
the fine English lady ; but there was not much of friendliness 
in his look. 

She followed Hamish down the rude wooden steps at 
the end of the pier ; and there they found the dingy awaiting 
them, with two men in her. Hamish was very careful of 
Miss White's dress as she got into the stern of the boat ; 
then he and Colin Laing got into the bow ; and the men half 
paddled and half floated her along to the Umpire — the tide 
having begun to ebb. 

And it was with much ceremony, too, that Hamish 
assisted Miss White to get on board by the little gangway ; 
and for a second or two she stood on deck and looked 
around her while the men were securing the dingy. The 
idlers lounging on Erith pier must have considered that this 
was an additional feature of interest in the summer picture 
— the figure of this pretty young lady standing there on the 
white decks and looking around her with a pleased curiosity. 
It was some little time since she had been on board the 
Umpire . 

Then Hamish turned to her, and said, in the same 
respectful way, 

“ Will you go below, mem, now ? It iss in the saloon 
that you will find Sir Keith ; and if Christina iss in the way, 
you will tell her to go away, mem.” 

The small gloved hand was laid on the top of the com- 
panion, and Miss White carefully went down the wooden 
steps. And it with a gentleness equal to her own that 
Hamish shut the little doors after her. 

But no sooner had she quite disappeared than the old 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


360 

man’s manner swiftly changed. He caught hold of the com 
panion hatch, jammed it across with a noise that was heard 
throughout the whole vessel ; and then he sprang to the helm, 
with the keen gray eyes afire with a wild excitement. 

“ her, we have her now ! ” he said, between his teeth ; 

and lie called aloud : “ Hold the jib to weather there ! Off 

with the moorings, John Cameron ! her, we have her 

now ! — and it is not yet that she has put a shame on Macleod 
of Dare l ” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

THE PRISONER. 

The sudden noise overhead and the hurried trampling of 
the men on deck were startling enough ; but surely there was 
nothing to alarm her in the calm and serious face of this man 
who stood before her. He did not advance to her. He re 
garded her with a sad tenderness, as if he were looking at 
one far away. When the beloved dead come back to us in 
the wonder-halls of sleep, there is no wild joy of meeting : 
there is something strange. And when they disappear again, 
there is no surprise : only the dull aching returns to the 
heart. 

“ Gertrude,” said he, “you are as safe here as ever you 
were in your mother’s arms. No one will harm you.” 

“ What is it ? What do you mean ? ” said she, quickly. 

She was somewhat bewildered. She had not expected to 
meet him thus suddenly face to face. And then she became 
aware that the companion-way by which she had descended 
nto the saloon had grown dark : that was the meaning of the 
harsh noise. 

“ I want to go ashore, Keith,” said she hurriedly. Put 
me on shore. I will speak to you there.” 

“ You cannot go ashore,” said he, calmly. 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” said she ; and her heart 
began to beat hurriedly. “I tell you I want to go ashore, 
Keith. I will speak to you there.” 

“ You cannot go ashore, Gertrude,” he repeated. “ We 
have already left Erith. * * * Gerty, Gerty,” he continued 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


36l 

for she was struck dumb with a sudden terror, “ don’t you 
understand now ? I have stolen you away from yourself. 
There was but the one thing left : the ore way of saring you. 
And you will forgive me, Gerty, when you understand it 
all—” 

She was gradually recovering from her terror. She did 
understand it now. And he was not ill at all. 

“ Oh, you coward ! you coward ! you coward ! ” she ex 
claimed, with a blaze of fury in her eyes. “ And I was to 
confer a kindness on you — a last kindness ! But you dare 
not do this thing ! I tell you, you dare not do it ! I demand 
to be put on shore at once ! Do you hear me ? ” 

She turned wildly round, as if to seek for some way of 
escape. The door in the ladies’ cabin stood open ; the day- 
light was streaming down into that cheerful little place ; there 
were some flowers on the dressing-table. But the way by 
which she had descended was barred over and dark. 

She faced him again, and her eyes were full of fierce in- 
dignation and anger ; she drew herself up to her full height ; 
she overwhelmed him with taunts, and reproaches, and scorn. 
That was a splendid piece of acting, seeing that it had never 
been rehearsed. He stood unmoved before all this theatrical 
rage. 

“ Oh yes, you were proud of your name,” she was saying, 
with bitter emphasis ; “ and I thought you belonged to a race 
of gentlemen, to whom lying was unknown. And you were 
no longer murderous and revengeful ; but you can take your 
revenge on a woman, for all that ! And you ask me to come 
and see you, because you are ill ! And you have laid a trap 
— like a coward ! ” 

“ And if I am what you say, Gerty,” said he, quite gently, 
“ it is the love of you that has made me that. Oh, you do 
not know ! ” 

She saw nothing of the lines that pain had written on 
this man’s face ; she recognized nothing of the very majesty 
of grief in the hopeless eyes. He was only her gaoler, her 
enemy. 

“ Of course — of course,” she said. “It is the woman — • 
it is always the woman who is in fault ! That is a manly 
thing, to put the blame on the woman ! And it is a manly 
thing to take your revenge on a woman ! I thought, when a 
man had a rival, that it was his rival whom he sought out. 
But you — you kept out of the way — ” 

He strode forward and caught her by the wrist. There 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


362 

was a look in his face that for a second terrified her into 
silence. 

“ Gerty,” said he, “ I warn you ! Do not mention that 
man to me — now or at any time ; or it will be bad for him 
and for you ! ” 

She twisted her hand from his grasp. 

“ How dare you come near me ! ” she cried. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said he, with an instant return lo 
his former grave gentleness of manner. “ I wish to let you 
know how you are situated, if you will let me, Gerty. I 
don’t wish to justify what I have done, for you would ncrt 
hear me — just yet. But this I must tell you, that I don’t 
wish to force myself on your society. You will do as you 
please. There is your cabin ; you have occupied it before. 
If you would like to have this saloon, you can have that too 
I mean I shall not come into it unless it pleases you. And 
there is a bell in your cabin ; and if you ring it, Christina 
will answer. 

She heard him out patiently. Her reply was a scornful, 
perhaps nervous, laugh. 

“ Why, this is mere folly,” she exclaimed. “ It is simple 
madness. I begin to believe that you are really ill, after all ; 
and it is your mind that is affected. Surely you don’t know 
what you are doing ? ” 

“ You are angry, Gerty,” said he, 

But the first blaze of her wrath and indignation had 
passed away ; and now fear was coming uppermost. 

“ Surely, Keith, you cannot be dreaming of such a mad 
thing ! Oh, it is impossible ! It is a joke : it was to frighten 
me ; it was to punish me, perhaps. Well, I have deserved 
it ; but now — now you have succeeded ; and you will let me 
go ashore, farther down the river.” 

Her tone was altered. She had been watching his face. 

“ Oh no, Gerty ; oh no,” he said. “ Do you not under- 
stand yet ? You were everything in the world to me ; you 
were life itself. Without you I had nothing, and the world 
might just as well come to an end for me. And t/hen 1 
thought you were going away from me, what could I do ? I 
could not reach you by letters, and letters ; and how could 
i know what the people around you were saying to you ? 
Ah, you do not know what I have suffered, Gerty ! And 
always I was saying to myself that if I could get you away 
from these people, you would remember the time that you 
gave me the red rose, and all those beautiful days would come 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


3&3 

back again, and [ would take your hand again, and I would 
forget altogethei about the terrible nights when I saw you 
beside me and heard you laugh just as in the old times. 
And I knew there was only the one way left. How could I 
but I ry that ? I knew you would be angry, but I hoped your 
anger would go away. And now you are angry, Gerty, and 
my speaking to you is not of much use — as yet ; but I can 
ivait until I see yourself again, as you used to be, in the gar- 
den — don’t you remember, Gerty ? ” 

Her fa :e was proud, cold, implacable. 

“ Do I understand you aright : that you have shut me up 
1 : this yacht and mean to take me away ? ” 

“ Gerty, I have saved you from yourself ! ” 

“ Will you be so kind as to tell me where we are going ? ” 
“Why not away back to the Highlands, Gerty?” said 
he, eagerly. “ And then some day when your heart relents, 
and you forgive me, you will put your hand in mine, and we 
will walk up the road to Castle Dare. Do you not think 
they will be glad to see us that day, Gerty ? ” 

She maintained her proud attitude, but she was trembling 
from head to foot. 

“ Do you mean to say that until I consent to be your 
wife I am not to be allowed to leave this yacht ? ” 

“ You will consent Gerty ! ” 

“ Not if I were to be shut up here for a thousand years ! ” 
she exclaimed, with another burst of passion. “ Oh, you 
will pay for this dearly ! I thought it was madness — mere 
folly; but if it is true, you will rue this day 1 Do you think 
we are savages here ? Do you think we have no law ? ” 

“ I do not care for any law,” said he, simply. “ I can 
only think of the one thing in the world. If I have not your 
love, Gerty, what else can I care about ? ” 

“ My love ! ” she exclaimed. “ And this is the way to earn 
it, truly ! My love ! If you were to keep me shut up for a thous-. 
and years, you would never have it! You can have my 
hatred, if you like, and plenty of it, too ! ” 

“You are angry, Gerty !” was all he said. 

“ Oh, you do not know with whom you have to deal ! ” 
she continued, with the same bitter emphasis. “You terrified 
me with stories of butchery — the butchery of innocent women 
and children ; and no doubt you thought the stories were 
fine ; and now you too would show you are one of the race 
by taking revenge on a woman. But if she is only a woman, 
you have not conquered her yet ! Oh, you wil’ find out be* 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


364 

fore long that we have law in this country, and that it is no( 
to be outraged with impunity. You think you can do as you 
like, because you are a Highland master, and you have a lot 
of slaves round you ! ” 

“ I am going on deck now, Gerty,” said he, in the same 
sad and gentle way. “ Shall I send Christina to you ? ” 

For an instant she looked bewildered, as if she had not 
till now comprehended what was going on ; and she said, 
quite wildly, — 

“Oh no, no, no, Keith ; you don’t mean what you say 1 
You cannot mean it! You are only frightening me! You 
will put me ashore — and not a word shall pass my lips. We 
cannot be far down the river, Keith. There are many places 
where you could put me ashore, and I could get back to 
London by rail. They won’t know I have ever seen you. 
Keith, you will put me ashore now? ” 

“ And if I were to put you ashore now, you would go away, 
Gerty, and I should never see you again — never, and never. 
And what would that be for you and for me, Gerty? But 
now you are here, no one can poison your mind ; you will be 
angry for a time ; but the brighter days are coming — oh yes, 
I know that : if I was not sure of that, what would become 
of me ? It is a good thing to have hope — to look forward to 
the glad days : that stills the pain at the heart. And now we 
two are together at last, Gerty ! And if you are angry, the 
anger will pass away ; and we will go forward together to the 
glad days.” 

She was listening in a sort of rague and stunned amaze- 
ment. Both her anger and her fear were slowly yielding to 
the bewilderment of the fact that she was really setting out 
on a voyage, the end of which neither she nor any one living 
could know. 

“ Ah, Gerty,” said he, regarding her with a strange w r ist- 
fulness in the sad eyes, “ you do not know what it is to me 
to see you again ! I have seen you many a time — in dreams ; 
but you were always far away, and I could not take yom 
hand. And I said to myself that you were not cruel ; that 
you did not wish any one to suffer pain. And I knew if I 
could only see you again, and take you away from these peo- 
ple, then your heart would be gentle, and you would think t>f 
the time when you gave me the red rose, and we went out in 
the garden, and all the air round us was so full of gladness 
that we did not speak at all. Oh yes ; and I said to myself 
that your true friends were in the North; and what would 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


365 

the men at Dubh-Artach not do for you, and Captain Mac* 
allum too, when they knew you were coming to live at Dare ; 
and I was thinking that would be a grand day when you came 
to live among us ; and there would be dancing, and a good 
glass of whiskey for every one, and some playing on the 
pipes that day ! And sometimes I did not know whether 
there would be more of laughing or of crying when Janet 
came to meet you. But I will not trouble you any more now, 
Gerty ; for you are tired, I think ; and I will send Christina 
to you. And you will soon think that I was not cruel to you 
when I took you away and saved you from yourself.” 

She did not answer ; she seemed in a sort of trance. 
But she was aroused by the entrance of Christina, who came 
in directly after Macleod left. Miss White stared at this tall 
white-haired woman, as if uncertain how to address her ; 
when she spoke, it was in a friendly and persuasive way. 
“You have not forgotten me, then, Christina ? ” 

“ No, mem,” said the grave Highland woman. She had 
beautiful, clear, blue-gray eyes, but there was no pity in 
them. 

“ I suppose you have no part in this mad freak ? ” 

The old woman seemed puzzled. She said, with a sort 
of serious politeness, — 

“ I do not know, mem. I have not the good English as 
Hamish.” 

“ But surely you know this,” said Miss Gertrude White, 
with more animation, “ that I am here against my will ? You 
understand that, surely? That I am being carried away 
against my will fron my own home and my friends ? You 
know it very well ; but perhaps your master has not told you 
of the risk you run ? Do you know what that is ? Do you 
think there are no laws in this country ? ” 

“ Sir Keith he is the master of the boat,” said Christina. 
“ Iss there anything now that I can do for you, mem ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Miss White, boldly ; “ there is. You ca& 
help me to get ashore. And you will save your master from 
being looked on as a madman. And you will save yourselves 
from being hanged.” 

“ I wass to ask you,” said the old Highland woman 
“ when you would be for having the dinner. And Hamish, 
he wass saying that you will hef the dinner what time you are 
thinking of ; and will you hef the dinner all by yourself ? ” 

“ I tell you this, woman,” said Miss White, with quick 
anger, “ that I will neither eat nor drink so long as I am on 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


366 

board this yacht ! What is the use of this nonsense ? I wish 
to be put on shore. I am getting tired of this folly. I tell 
you I want to go ashore ; and I am going ashore ; and it will 
be the worse for any one who tries to stop me ! ” 

“ I do not think you can go ashore, mem,” Christina said, 
somewhat deliberately picking out her English phrases, “for 
the gig is up at the davits now ; and the dingy — you wass 
not thinking of going ashore by yourself in the dingy ? And 
last night, mem, at a town, we had many things brought on # 
board ; and if you would tell me what you would hef for the 
dinner, there is no one more willing than me. And I hope 
you will hef very good comfort on board the yacht.” 

“ I can’t get it into your head that you are talking non 
sense ! ” said Miss White, angrily. “ I tell you I will not go 
anywhere in this yacht ! And what is the use of talking to 
me about dinner? I tell you I will neither eat nor drink 
while I am on board this yacht ! ” 

“I think that would be a ferry foolish thing, mem,” 
Christina said, humbly enough ; but all the same, the scorn- 
ful fashion in which this young lady had addressed her had 
stirred a little of the Highland woman’s blood; and she 
added — still with great apparent humility — “ But if you will 
not eat, they say that iss a ferry good thing for the pride ; 
and there iss not much pride left if one hass nothing to eat, 
mem.” 

“ I presume that is to be my prison? ” said Miss White, 
haughtily, turning to the smart little stateroom beyond the 
companion. 

“ That iss your cabin, mem, if you please, mem,” said 
Christina, who had been instructed in English politeness by 
her husband. 

“ Well, now, can you understand this ? Go to Sir Keith 
Macleod, and tell him that I have shut myself up in that 
cabin ; and that I will speak not a word to any one ; and I 
will neither eat nor drink until I am taken on shore. And so, 
if he wishes to have a murder on his hands, very well 1 Do 
you understand that ? ” 

“ 1 will say that to Sir Keith,” Christina answered, s lb- 
missively. 

Miss White walked into the cabin and locked herself in. 
It was an apartment with which she was familiar; but where 
had they got the white heather ? And there were books ; but 
she paid little heed. They would discover they had not 
broken her spirit yet 


r 


MACLEOD OP DARE. 


367 


On either side the skylight overhead was open an inch ; 
ind it was nearer to the tiller than the skylight of tne saloon, 
[n the absolute stillness of this summer day she heard two 
men talking. Generally they spoke in the Gaelic, which was 
of course unintelligible to her ; but sometimes they wandered 
into English — especially if the name of some English town 
cropped up — and thus she got hints as to the whereabouts ot 
the Umpire. 

“ Oh yes, it is a fine big town that town of Gravesend, to 
be sure, Hamish,” said the one voice, “ and I have no doubt, 
now, that it will be sending a gentleman to the Houses of 
Parliament in London, just as Greenock will do. But there 
is no one you will send from Mull. They do not know much 
about Mull in the Houses of Parliament.” 

“ And they know plenty about ferry much worse places,” 
said Hamish, proudly. “ And wass you saying there will be 
anything so beautiful about Greenock ass you will find at 
Tobbermorry ? ” 

“Tobermory!” said the other; “There are some trees 
at Tobermory — oh yes ; and the Mish-nish and the shops — ” 

“ Yess, and the waterfahl — do not forget the waterfalh, 
Colin ; and there iss better whiskey in Tobbermorry ass you 
will get in all Greenock, where they will be for mixing it 
with prandy and other drinks like that ; and at Tobbermorry 
you will hef a Professor come all the way from Edinburgh 
and from Oban to gif a lecture on the Gaelic ; but do you 
think he would gif a lecture in a town like Greenock ? Oh 
no ; he would not do that ! ” 

“ Very well, Hamish ; but it is glad I am that we arc go- 
ing back the way we came.” 

“ And me, too, Colin.” 

“ And I will not be sorry when I am in Greenock once 
more.” 

“ But you will come with us first of all to Castle Dare, 
Colin,” was the reply. “ And I know that Lady Macleod 
herself will be for shaking hands with you, and thanking you 
that you wass tek the care of the yacht.” 

“ I think 1 will stop at Greenock, Hamish. You know 
you can take her well on from Greenock. And will you go 
round the Mull, Hamish, or through the Crinan, do you 
think now ? ” 

“ Oh, I am not afrait to tek her round the Moil ; but there 
iss the English lady on board ; and it will be smoother for 
her to go through the Crinan. And it iss ferry glad I will be, 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


368 

Colin, to see Ardalanish Point again ; for I would rather be 
going through the Doruis Mohr twenty times ass getting pe- 
tween the panks of this tamned river.” 

Here they relapsed into their native tongue, and she 
listened no longer ; but, at all events, she had learned that 
(hey were going away to the North. And as her nerves had 
been somewhat shaken, she began to ask herself what further 
thing this madman might not do. The old stories he had 
told her came back with a marvellous distinctness. Would 
he plunge her into a dungeon and mock her with an empty 
cup when she was dying of thrist ? Would he chain her to a 
rock at low-water; and watch the tide slowly rise ? He pro- 
fessed great gentleness and love for her ; but if the savage 
nature had broken out at last ! Her fear grew apace. He 
had shown himself regardless of everything on earth : where 
would he stop, if she continued to repel him ? And then the 
thought of her situation — alone ; shut up in this small room ; 
about to venture forth on the open sea with this ignorant 
crew — so overcame her that she hastily snatched at the bell 
on the dressing table and rang it violently. Almost instantly 
there was a tapping at the door. 

“ I ask your pardon, mem,” she heard Christina say. 

She sprang to the door and opened it, and caught the arm 
of the old woman. 

“ Christina, Christina ! ” she said, almost wildly, “ you 
won’t let them take me away ? My father will give you hun- 
dreds and hundreds of pounds if only you get me ashore ! 
Just think of him — he is an old man — if you had a daughter 

Miss White was acting very well indeed ; though she was 
more concerned about herself than her father. 

“ I wass to say to you,” Christina explained with some dif* 
.ficulty, “ that if you wass saying that, Sir Keith had a message 
‘sent away to your father, and you wass not to think any more 
about that. And now, mem, I cannot tek you ashore ; is iss 
no business I hef with that ; and I could not go ashore my- 
self whateffer ; but I would get you some dinner, mem.” 

“ Then I suppose you don’t understand the English lan- 
guage ! ” Miss White exclaimed, angrily. “ I tell you I will 
neither eat nor drink so long as I am on board this yacht ! 
Go and tell Sir Keith Macleod what I have said.” 

So Miss White was left alone again ; and the slow time 
passed ; and she heard the murmured conversation of the 
men ; and also a measured pacing to and fro, which she took 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


369 

to be the step of Macleod. Quick rushes of feeling went 
through her, indignation, a stubborn obstinacy, a wonder over 
the audacity of this thing, malevolent hatred even ; but all 
these were being gradually subdued by the dominant claim 
of hunger. Miss White had acted the part of many heroines 
but she was not herself a heroine — if there is anything heroic 
in starvation. It was growing to dusk when she again sum 
moned the old Highland-woman. 

“ Get me something to eat,” said she ; “ I cannot dis 
like a rat in a hole. * 

“ Yes, mem,” said Christina, in the most matter-of-fact 
way ; for she had never been in a theatre in her life, and she 
had not imagined that Miss White’s threat meant anything 
at all. “ The dinner is just ready now, mem ; and if you will 
hef it in the saloon, there will be no one there ; that wass Sir 
Keith’s message to you.” 

“ I will not have it in the saloon ; I will have it here.” 

“ Ferry well, mem,” Christina said, submissively. “ But 
you aadll go into the saloon, mem, when 1 will mek the bed 
for you, and the lamp will hef to be lit, but Hamish he will 
light the lamp for you. And are there any other things you 
wass thinking of that you would like, mem ? ” 

“ No ; I want something to eat.” 

“ And Hamish, mem, he wass saying I will ask you 
whether you will hef the claret-wine, or — or — the other wine, 
mem, that makes a noise — ” 

“ Bring me some water. But the whole of you will pay 
dearly for this ! ” 

“ I ask your pardon, mem ?” said Christina, with great 
respect. 

“ Oh, go away, and get me something to eat ! ” 

And in fact Miss White made a very good dinner, though 
the things had to be placed before her on her dressing-table. 
And her rage and indignation did not prevent her having, 
after all a glass or two of the claret-wine. And then she per- 
mitted Hamish to come in and light the swinging lamp ; and 
thereafter Christina made up one of the two narrow beds. 
Miss White was left alone. 

Many a hundred* times had she been placed in great peril 
— on the stage ; and she knew that on such occasions it had 
been her duty to clasp her hand on her forehead and set to 
work to find out how to extricate herself. Well, on this 00 
casion she did not make use of any dramatic gesture ; but 
she turned out the lamp, and threw herself on the top of this 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


37 ° 

narrow little bed ; and was determined that, before they got 
her conveyed to their savage home in the North, she v/ould 
make one more effort for her freedom. Then she heaiu the 
man at the helm begin to hum to himself “ Fhir a bhala , na 
horo eile .” The night darkened. And soon all the wild 
emotions of the day were forgotten ; for she was asleep. 
******* 

Asleep — in the very waters through which she had sailed 
with her lover on the white summer day. But Rose-leaf J 
Rose-leaf l what faint wind will ca? ry you now to the South l 


CHAPTER XLV. 

THE VOYAGE OVER. 

And now the brave old Umpire is nearing her Nortliem 
home once more; and surely this is a right royal evening 
for the reception of her. What although the sun has just 
gone down, and the sea around them become a plain of head- 
ing and wrestling blue-black waves ? Far away, in that pur- 
ple-black sea, lie long promontories that are of a still pale 
rose-color ; and the western sky is a blaze of golden-green ; 
and they know that the wild, beautiful radiance is still touch- 
ing the wan walls of Castle Dare. And there is Ardalanish 
Point ; and that the ruddy Ross of Mull ; and there will be 
a good tide in the Sound of Iona. Why, then, do they linger, 
and keep the old Umpire with her sails flapping idly in the 
wind ? 

“ As you pass through Jura’s Sound 

Bend your course by Scarba’s shore; 

Shun, oh shun, the gulf profound 

Where Corrievreckan’s surges roar ! ” 

They are in no danger of Corrievreckan now ; they are in 
familiar waters ; only that is another Colonsay that lies away 
there in the south. Keith Macleod, seated up at the bow, 
is calmly regarding it. He is quite alone. There is 
sound around him but the lapping of the waves. 

“ And ever as the year returns, 

The charm-bound sailors knows the day \ 

For sadly still the Mermaid mourns 
Th» lovely chief of Colonsay.” 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


37 » 


And is he listening now for the wild sound of her singing? 
Or is he thinking of the brave Macphail, who went back 
after seven long months of absence, and found the maid of 
Colonsay still true to him ? The ruby ring she had given 
him had never paled. There was one woman who could re- 
main tree to her absent lover. 

Hamish came forward. 

“ Will we go on now, sir ? ” said he, in the Gaelic. 

“ No.” 

Hamish looked round. The shining clear evening looked 
very calm, notwithstanding the tossing of the blue-black 
waves. And it seemed wasteful to the old sailor to keep 
the yacht lying-to or aimlessly sailing this way and that 
while this favorable wind remained to them. 

“ I am not sure that the breeze will last, Sir Keith.” 

“ Are you sure of anything, Hamish ? ” Macleod said, 
quite absently. “Well, there is one thing we can all make 
sure of. But I have told you, Hamish, I am not going up 
the Sound of Iona in daylight: why, there is not a man in 
all the islands who would not know of our coming by to- 
morrow morning. We will go up the Sound as soon as it is 
dark. It is a new moon to-night; and I think we can go 
without lights, Hamish.” 

“ Danara is coming south to-night,, Sir Keith,” the old 
man said. 

“ Why, Hamish, you seem to have lost all your courage 
as soon as you put Colin Laing ashore ” 

“ Colin Laing ! Is it Colin Laing ! * exclaimed Hamish, 
indignantly. “ I will know how to sail this yacht, and I will 
know the banks, and the tides, and the rocks better than 
any fifteen thousands of Colin Laings ! ” 

“ And what if the Dunara is coming south ? If she 
cannot see us, we can see her.” 

But whether it was that Colin Laing had, before leaving 
the yacht, managed to convey to Hamish some notion of the 
risk he was running, or whether it was that he w T as merely 
anxious for his master’s safety, it was clear that Hamish 
was far from satisfied. He opened and shut his big clasp- 
knife in an awkward silence. Then he said, — 

“ You will not go to Castle Dare, Sir Keith ? ” 

Macleod started; he had forgotten that Hamish was 
there. 

“ No. I have told you where I am going.” 

“ But there is not any good anchorage at that island 


37 ’ 


MAC LEO u OF DARE. 


sir ! ” he protested. “ Have I not been round every bay of 
it ; and you too, Sir Keith ? and you know there is not an 
inch of sand or of mud, but only the small loose stones. 
And then the shepherd they left there all by himself ; it was 
mad he became at last, and took his own life too.” 

“ Well, do you expect to see his ghost ? ” Macleod said. 
“ Come, Hamish, you have lost your nerve in the South. 
Surely you are not afraid of being anywhere in the old yacht 
50 long as she has good sea-room around her ? ” 

“ And if you are not wishing to go up the Sound of Iona 
in the daylight, Sir Keith,” Hamish said, still clingingto the 
point, u we could bear a little to the south, and go round the 
outside of Iona.” 

“ The Dubh-Artach men would recognize the Umpire at 
once,” Macleod said, abruptly ; and then he suggested to 
Hamish that he should get a little more way on the yacht, so 
that she might be a trifle steadier when Christina carried the 
dinner into the English lady’s cabin. But indeed there was 
now little breeze of any kind. Hamish’s fears of a dead 
calm was likely to prove true. 

Meanwhile another conversation had been going forward 
in the small cabin below, that was now suffused by a strange 
warm light reflected from the evening sky. Miss White was 
looking very well now, after her long sea-voyage. During 
their first few hours in blue water she had been very ill 
indeed ; and she repeatedly called cn Christina to allow her 
to die. The old Highland-woman came to the conclusion 
that English ladies were rather childish in their way; but 
the only answer she made to this reiterated prayer was to 
make Miss White as comfortable as was possible, and to 
administer such restoratives as she thought desirable. At 
length, when recovery and a sound appetite set in, the patienr 
began to show a great friendship for Christina. There was 
no longer any theatrical warning of the awful fate in store 
for everybody connected with this enterprise. She tried 
rather to enlist the old woman’s sympathies on her behalf, 
and if she did not very well succeed in that direction, at 
least she remained on friendly terms with Christina and 
received from her the solace of much gossip about the 
whereabouts and possible destination of the ship. 

And on this evening Christina had an important piece of 
news. 


“ Where have we got to now, Christina ? ” said Miss 
White, quite cheerfully, when the old woman entered. 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


373 

“Oh yes, mem, we will still be off the Mull shore, but a 
good piece away from it, and there is not much wind, mem. 
But Hamish thinks we will get to the anchorage the night 
whatever.” 

“ The anchorage ! ” Miss White exclaimed eagerly. 
“Where ? You are going to Castle Dare, surely ?” 

“ No, mem, I think not,” said Christina. “ I think .t s 
an island ; but you will not know the name of that island—* 
there is no English for it at all.” 

“ But where is it ? Is it near Castle Dare ? * 

“ Oh no, mem ; it is a good way from Castle Dare ; and 
it is out in the sea. Do you know Gometra, mem ? — wass 
you ever going out to Gometra ? ” 

“Yes, of course, I remember something about it any- 
way.” 

“ Ah, well, it is away out past Gometra, mem ; and not a 
good place for an anchorage whatever ; but Hamish he will 
know all the anchorages.” 

“ What on earth is the use of going there ? ” 

“ I do not know, mem.” 

“ Is Sir Keith going to keep me on board this boat for- 
ever ? ” 

“ I do not know, mem.” 

Christina had to leave the cabin just then ; when she 
returned she said, with some little hesitation, 

“ If I wass mekking so bold, men, ass to say this to you : 
Why are you not asking the questions of Sir Keith himself ? 
He will know all about it ; and if you were to come into the 
saloon, mem — ” 

“ Do you think I would enter into any communication 
with him after his treatment of me ? ” said Miss White, 
indignantly. “ No ; let him atone for that first. When 
he has set me at liberty, then I will speak with him ; but 
never so long as he keeps me shut up like a convict.” \ 

“I wass only saying, mem,” Christina answered, with 
great respect, “ that if you were wishing to know where we 
were going, Sir Keith will know that ; but how can I kr ow 
it ? And you know, mem, Sir Keith has not shut you up in 
this cabin ; you lief the saloon, if you would please to hef 
it.” 

“ Thank you, I know!” rejoined Miss White. “If I 
choose, my gaol may consist of two rooms instead of one. I 
don’t appreciate that amount of liberty. I want to be set 
ashore.” 


374 


MACLEOD OF DARE, 


“ That I hef nothing to do with, mem,” Christina said 
humbly, proceeding with her work. 

Miss White, being left to think over these things, was 
beginning to believe that, after all, her obduracy was not 
likely to be of much service to her. Would it not be wiser 
to treat with the enemy — perhaps to outwit him by a show 
of forgiveness ? Here they were approaching the end of 
the voyage — at least, Christina seemed to intimate as 
* much ; and if they were not exactly within call of friends, 
they would surely be within rowing distance of some 
inhabited island, even Gometra, for example. And if only a 
message could be sent to Castle Dare ? Lady Macleod and 
Janet Macleod were women. They would not countenance 
this monstrous thing. If she could only reach them, she 
would be safe. 

The rose-pink died away from the long promontories, and 
was succeeded by a sombre gray ; the glory in the west sank 
down ; a wan twilight came over the sea and the sky ; and 
a small golden star, like the point of a needle, told where the 
Dubh-Artach men had lit their beacon for the coming night. 
The Umpire lay and idly rolled in this dead calm ; Macleod 
paced up and down the deck in the solemn stillness. 
Hamish threw a tarpaulin over the skylight of the saloon, to 
cover the bewildering light from below ; and then, as the 
time went slowly by, darkness came over the land and the 
sea. They were alone with the night, and the lapping waves, 
and the stars. 

About ten o’clock there was a loud rattling of blocks and 
cordage — the first puff of a coming breeze had struck her. 
The men were at their posts in a moment ; there were a few 
sharp, quick orders from Hamish; and presently the old 
Umpire , with her great boom away over her quarter, was 
running free before a light southeasterly wind. 

“Ay, ay !” said Hamish, in sudden gladness, “we will 
soon be by Ardalanish Point with a fine wind like this, Sir 
Keith ; and if you would rather hef no lights on her — well, 
it is a clear night whateffer ; and the Dunara she will hef 
up her lights.” 

The wind came in bits of squalls, it is true ; but the sky 
overhead remained clear, and the Umpire bowled merrily 
along. Macleod was still on deck. They rounded the Ross 
of Mull, and got into the smoother waters of the Sound. 
Would any of the people in the cottages at Drraidh see this 
gray ghost of a vessel go gliding past over the dark water ? 


MACLEOD OF DARE, 


375 

Behind them burned the yellow eye of Dubh-Artach , before 
them a few small red points told them of the Iona cottages; 
and still this phantom gray vessel held on her way. The 
Umpire was nearing her last anchorage. 

And still she steals onward, like a thief in the night 
She has passed through the Sound ; she is in the open sea 
again ; there is a calling of startled birds from over the darl< 
bosom of the deep. Then far away they watch the light of 
3 steamer; but she is miles from their course; they cannot 
iwen hear the throb of her engines. 

It is another sound they hear — a low booming as of 
distant thunder. And that black thing away on their right 
— scarcely visible over the darkened waves — is that the 
channelled and sea-bird haunted Staffa, trembling through all 
her caves under the shock of the smooth Atlantic surge ? 
For all the clearness of the starlit sky, there is a wild boom- 
ing of waters all around her rocks ; and the giant caverns 
answer ; and the thunder shudders out to the listening sea. 

The night drags on. The Dutchman is fast asleep in his 
vast Atlantic bed ; the dull roar of the waves he has heard 
for millions of years is not likely to awake him. And 
Fladda and Lunga ; surely this ghost-gray ship that steals 
by is not the old Umpire that used to visit them in the gay 
summer-time, with her red ensign flying, and the blue seas 
all around her ? But here is a dark object on the waters that 
is growing larger and larger as one approaches it. The 
black outline of it is becoming sharp against the clear dome 
of stars. There is a gloom around as one gets nearer and 
nearer the bays and cliffs of this lonely island ; and now one 
hears the sound of breakers on the rocks. Hamish and his 
men are on the alert. The topsail has been lowered. The 
heavy cable of the anchor lies ready by the windlass. And 
then, as the Umpire glides into smooth water, and her head 
,s brought round to the light breeze, away goes the anchoi 
with a rattle that awakes a thousand echoes ; and all the 
startled birds among the rocks are calling through the night 
—the sea-pyots screaming shrilly, the curlews uttering their 
warning note, the herons croaking as they wing their slow 
flight away across the sea. The Umpire has got to her 
anchorage at last. 

And scarcely was the anchor down when they brought him 
a message from the English lady. She was in the saloon, 
and wished to see him. He could scarcely believe this ; for 
it was now past midnight, and she had never come into the 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


37 6 

saloon before. But he went down through the forecastle, 
and through his own stateroom, and opened the door of the 
saloon. 

For a second the strong light almost blinded him ; but, 
at all events, he knew she was sitting there ; and that she 
was regarding him with no fierce indignation at all, but with 
quite a friendly look. 

“ Gertrude ! ” said he, in wonder ; but he did not ap 
proach her. He stood before her, as one who was subm’s 
sive. 

“ So we have got to land at last,” said she ; and more 
and more he wondered to hear the friendliness of her voice. 
Could it be true, then ? Or was it only one of those visions 
that had of late been torturing his brain ? 

“ Oh yes, Gerty ! ” said he. “ We have got to an an- 
chorage.” 

“ I thought I would sit up for it,” said she. “ Christina 
said we should get to land some time to-night ; and I thought 
I would like to see you. Because, you know, Keith, you have 
used me very badly. And won’t you sit down ? ” 

He accepted that invitation. Could it be true ? could it be 
true ? This was ringing in his ears. He heard her only in 
a bewildered way. 

“ And I want you to tell me what you mean to do with 
me,” said she, frankly and graciously : “I am at your mercy, 
Keith.” 

“ Oh, not that — not that,” said he ; and he added, sadly 
enough, “ it is I who have been at your mercy since ever I 
saw you, Gerty ; and it is for you to say what is to become 
of you and of me. And have you got over your anger now ? 
And will you think of all that made me do this, and try to 
forgive it for the sake of my love for you, Gerty ? Is there 
any chance of that now ? ” 

She rather avoided the earnest gaze that was bent on her. 
She did not notice how nervously his hand gripped the edge 
of the table near him. 

“ Well, it is a good deal to forgive, Keith ; you will ac- 
knowledge that yourself : and though you used to think that 
I was ready to sacrifice everything for fame, I did not ex- 
pect you would make me a nine-days’ wonder in this way. I 
suppose the whole thing is in the papers now.” 

“ Oh no, Gerty ; I sent a message to your father.” 

“ Well, that was kind of you — and audacious. Were you 
not afraid of his overtaking you? The Umpire is not 1 be 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


377 


swiftest of sailers, you used to say ; and you know there arc 
telegraphs and railways to all the ports.” 

“ He did not know you were in the Umpire , Gerty. But 
of course, if he were very anxious about you, he would write 
or come to Dare. I should not be surprised if he were there 
now.” 

A quick look of surprise and gladness sprang to her face. 

“ Papa — at Castle Dare ! ” she exclaimed. “ And Chris- 
tina says it is not far from here.” 

“ Not many miles away.” 

“ Then, of course, they will know we are here in the 
morning !” she cried, in the indiscretion of sudden joy. 
“ And they will come out for me.” 

“ Oh no, Gerty, they will not come out for you. No hu- 
man being but those on board knows that we are here. Do 
you think they could see you from Dare ? And there is no 
one living now on the island. We are alone in the sea.” 

The light died away from her face ; but she said, cheer- 
fully enough, — 

“ Well, I am at your mercy, then, Keith. Let us take it 
that way. Now you must tell me what part in the comedy 
you mean me to play ; for the life of me I can’t make it 
out.” 

“ Oh, Gerty, Gerty, do not speak like that ! ” he ex- 
claimed. “You are breaking my heart ! Is there none of 
the old love left ? Is it all a matter for jesting ? ” 

She saw she had been incautious. 

“ Well,” said she, gently, “ I was wrong ; I know it is 
more serious than that ; and I am not indisposed to forgive 
you, if you treat me fairly. I know you have great earnest- 
ness of nature ; and — and you were very fond of me ; and 
although you have risked a great deal in what you have done, 
still, men who are very deeply in love don’t think much about 
consequences. And if I were to forgive you, and make 
fiiends again-, what then ? ” 

“ And if we were as we used to be,” said he, with a grave 
wistfulness in his face, “ do you not think I would gladly 
take you ashore, Gerty ? ” 

“ And to Castle Dare ? ” 

“ Oh yes, to Castle Dare ! Would not my mother and 
Janet be glad to welcome you ! ” 

“ And papa may be there 

4 4 If he is not there, can we not telegraph for him ? Why, 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


378 

Gerty, surely you would not be married anywhere but in the 
Highlands ? ” 

At the mention of marriage she blanched somewhat ; but 
she had nerved herself to play this part. 

“ Then, Keith,” said she, gallantly, “ I will make you a 
promise. Take me to Castle Dare to-morrow, and the mo 
ment I am within its doors I will shake hands with you, and 
forgive you, and we will be friends again as in the old days.’ 

“ We were more than friends, Gerty,” said he, in a low 
Voice. 

“ Let us be friends first, and then who knows what may 
not follow ? ” said she, brightly. “ You cannot expect me to 
be overprofuse in affection just after being shut up like 
this ? ” 

“Gerty,” said he, and he looked at her with those 
strangely tired eyes, and there was a great gentleness in his 
voice, “do you know where you are ? You are close to the 
island that I told you of — where I wish to have my grave op 
the cliff. But instead of a grave, would it not be a fine thing 
to have a marriage here ? No, do not be alarmed, Gerty * 
it is only with your own good-will ; and surely your hear 1 
will consent at last ! Would not that be a strange wedding 
too ; with the minister from Salen ; and your father op 
board ; and the people from Dare ? Oh, you would see sucb 
a number of boats come out that day, and we would go 
proudly back ; and do you not think there would be a grea* 
rejoicing that day ? Then all our troubles would be at ar 
end, Gerty ! There would be no more fear ; and the theatres 
would never see you again ; and the long happy life we 
should lead, we two together ! And do you know the first 
thing I would get you, Gerty ? — it would be a new yacht ! T 
would go to the Clyde and have it built all for you. I would 
not have you go out again in this yacht, for you would then 
remember the days in which I was cruel to you ; but in a 
new yacht you would not remember that any more ; and do 
you not think we would have many a pleasant, long summer 
day on the deck of her, and only ourselves, Gerty? And 
you would sing the songs I first heard you sing, and I think 
the sailors would imagine they heard the singing of the 
mermaid of Colonsay ; for there is no one can sing as you 
can sing, Gerty. I think it was that first took away my heart 
from me.” 

“ But we can talk about all these things when I am on 
shore again,” said she, coldly. “ You cannot expect me 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


379 

to be very favorably disposed so long as I am shut up 
here.” 

“ But then,” he said, “ if you were on shore you might 
go away again from me, Gerty ! The people would get at 
your ear again ; they would whisper things to you ; you 
would think about the theatres again. I have saved you, 
sweetheart ; can I let you go back ? ” 

The words were spoken with an eager affection, aiv' 
yearning ; but they sank into her mind with a dull and cold 
conviction that there was no escape for her through any way 
of artifice. 

“ Am I to understand, then,” said she, “ that you mean 
tu keep me a prisoner here until I marry you ? ” 

“ Why do you speak like that, Gerty ? ” 

“ I demand an answer to my question.” 

“ I have risked everything to save you ; can I let you go 
back ? ” 

A sudden flash of desperate anger — even of hatred — 
was in her eyes ; her fine piece of acting had been of no 
avail. 

“ Well, let the farce end ! ” said she, with frowning eye- 
brows. “ Before I came on board this yacht I had some 
pity for you. I thought you were at least a man, and had a 
man’s generosity. Now I find you a coward, and a 
tyrant — ” 

“ Gerty ! ” 

“ Oh, do not think you have frightened me with your 
stories of the revenge of your miserable chiefs and their 
savage slaves! Not a bit of it! Do with me what you 
like ; I would not marry you if you gave me a hundred 
yachts ! ” 

“ Gerty ! ” 

The anguish of his face was growing wild with despair. 

* I say, let the farce end ! I 1 ad pity for you — yes, I 
had ! Now — I hate you ! ” 

He sprang up with a quick cry, as of one shot to the 
heart. He regarded her, in a bewildered manner, for one 
brief second ; and then he gently said, “ Good-night, Gerty ! 
God forgive you ! ” and he staggered backward, and got out 
of the saloon, leaving her alone. 

See ! the night is still fine. All around this solitary bay 
there is a wall of rock, jet black, against the clear, dark sky, 
with its myriad twinkling stars. The new moon has arisen • 
but it sheds but little radiance yet down there in the south 


MACLEOD OF DARE 


380 

There is a sharper gleam from one lambent planet — a thin 
line of golden-yellow light that comes all the way across from 
the black rocks until it breaks in flashes among the ripples 
close to the side of the yacht. Silence once more reigns 
around ; only from time to time one hears the croak of a 
heron from the dusky shore. 

What can keep this man up so late on deck ? There is 
nothing to look at but the great bows of the yacht black against 
the pale gray sea, and the tall spars and the rigging going 
away up into the starlit sky, and the suffused glow from the 
skylight touching a yellow-gray on the main-bpom. There is 
no need for the anchor-watch that Hamish was insisting on : 
the equinoctials are not likely to begin on such a night as 
this. 

Pie is looking across the lapping gray water to the jet- 
black line of cliff. And there are certain words haunting 
him. He cannot forget them ; he cannot put them away. 

# * * # =* # * 

Wherefore is light given to him that is i*n misery, and 

LIFE UNTO THE BITTER IN SOUL? * * * WHICH LONG FOR 
DEATH, BUT IT COMETH NOT ; AND DIG FOR IT MORE THAN FOR 
HIDDEN TREASURES. * * * WHICH REJOICE EXCEEDINGLY, AND 
ARE GLAD WHEN THEY CAN FIND THE GRAVE. 

=*####** 

Then, in the stillness of the night, he heard a breathing. 
He went forward, and found that Hamish had secreted him- 
self behind the windlass. He uttered some exclamation in 
the Gaelic, and the old man rose and stood guiltily before 
him. 

“ Have I not told you to go below before ? and will I have 
to throw you down into the forecastle ? ” 

The old man stood irresolute for a moment. Then he 
said, also in his native tongue, — 

“You should not speak like that to me, Sir Keith : I have 
known you many a year.” 

Macleod caught Hamish’s hand. 

“ l beg your pardon, Hamish. You do not know. It is 
a sore heart I have this night.” 

“ Oh, God help us ! Do I not know that ! ” he exclaimed, 
in a broken voice ; and Macleod, as he turned away, could 
hear the old man crying bitterly in the dark. What else could 
Hamish do now for him who had been to him as the son of 
his old age ? 


MACLEOD OF DARE 381 

“ Go below now, Hamish,” said Macleod in a gentle voice • 
and the cld man slowly and reluctantly obeyed. 

But the night had not drawn to day when Macleod again 
went forward, and said, in a strange, excited whisper, — 

“ Hamish, Hamish, are you awake now ? ” 

Instantly the old man appeared ; he had not turned into' 
his berth at all. 

“ Hamish, Hamish, do you hear the sound ? ” Macleod 
said, in the same wild way ; “ do you not hear the sound ? ” 

“ What sound, Sir Keith ?” said he ; for indeed there was 
nothing but the lapping of the water along the side of the 
yacht and a murmur of ripples along the shore. 

“ Do you not hear it, Hamish ? It is a sound as of a 
brass-band ! — a brass-band playing music — as if it was in a 
theatre. Can you not hear it, Hamish ? ” 

“ Oh, God help us ! God help us ! ” Hamish cried. 

“ You do not hear it, Hamish? ” he said. “ Ah, it is some 
mistake. I beg your pardon for calling you, Hamish : now 
you will go below again.” 

“ Oh no, Sir Keith,” said Hamish. “ Will I not stay on 
deck now till the morning ? It is a fine sleep I have had ; 
oh yes, I had a fine sleep. And how is one to know when 
the equinoctials may not come on ? ” 

“ I wish you to go below, Hamish.” 

And now this sound that is ringing in his ears is no longer of 
the brass-band that he had heard in die theatre. It is quite 
different. It has all the ghastly mirth of that song that Nor- 
man Ogilvie used to sing in the old, half-forgotten days. 
What is it that he hears ? 

“ King Death was a rare old fellow, 

He sat where no sun could shine; 

And he lifted his hand so yellow, 

And poured out his coal-black wine ! 

Hurrah I hurrah ! hurrah 1 for the coal-black wine !* 

It is a strange mirth. It might almost make a man laugh. 
For do we not laugh gently when we bury a young child, and 
put the flowers over it, and know that it is at peace ? The 
child has no more pain at the heart. Oh, Norman Ogilvie, 
are you still singing the wild song ? and are you laughing 
now ? — or is it the old man Hamish that is crying in the 
dark ? 

\ 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


382 


“ There came to him many a maiden, 

Whose eyes had forgot to shine ; 

And widows with grief o’erladen, 

For a draught of his sleepy wine. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah 1 for the coal-black wine 1 n 

It is such a fine thing to sleep — when one has been fretting 
all the night, and spas-ms of fire go through the brain . 
Ogilvie, Ogilvie, do you remember the laughing Duchess I 
do you think she would laugh over one’s grave ; or put her 
foot on it, and stand relentless, with anger in her eyes ? 
That is a sad thing ; but after it is over there is sleep. 
******* 

“ All came to the rare old fellow, 

Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine, 

As he gave them his hand so yellow, 

And pledged them, in Death’s black wine ! 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah I for the coal-black wine 1 ” 

Hamish ! — Hamish I — will you not keep her away from me r 
[ have told Donald what pibroch he will play ; I want to 
be at peace now. But the brass-band — the brass-band — I 
can hear the blare of the trumpets ; Ulva will know that we 
are here, and the Gometra men, and the sea-birds too, that I 
used to love. But she has killed all that now, and she 
stands on my grave. She will laugh, for she was light- 
hearted, like a young child. But you, Hamish, you will find 
the quiet grave for me ; and Donald will play the pibroch 
for me that I told him of ; and you will say no word to her of 
all that is over and gone. 

******* 

See — he sleeps. This haggard-faced man is stretched on 
the deck; and the pale dawn, arising in the east, looks at 
him ; and does not revive him, but makes him whiter still. 
You might almost think he was dead. But Hamish knows 
better than that ; for the old man comes stealthily forward ; 
and he has a great tartan plaid in his hands ; and very gently 
indeed he puts it over his young master. And there are 
tears running down Hamish’s face ; and he says “ The brave 
ad ! the bi ave lad ! ” 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


383 


CHAPTER XL VI. 

THE END. 

v Duncan,” sa. 1 Hamish, in a low whisper — fcr Macleod 
had gone below, and they thought he might be asleep in the 
small, hushed state-room, “ this is a strange-looking day, is 
it net ? And I am afraid of it in this open bay, with an an- 
chorage no better than a sheet of paper for an anchorage. 
Do you see now how strange-looking it is ? ” 

Duncan Cameron also spoke in his native tongue ; and 
he said — 

“ Tnat is true, Hamish. And it was a day like this there 
was when the Solan was sunk at her moorings in Loch 
Hourn. Do you remember, Hamish ? And it would be 
better tor us now if we were in Loch Tua, or Loch-na-Keal, 
or in the dock that was built for the steamer at Tiree. I do 
not like the look of this day.” 

Yet to an ordinary observer it would have seemed that 
the chief characteristic of this pale, still day, was extreme 
and settled calm. There was not a bieath of wind to ruffle 
the surface of the sea ; but there was a slight, glassy swell, 
and that only served to show curious opalescent tints under 
the suffused light of the sun. There were no clouds; there 
was only a thin veil of faint and sultry mist all across the 
sky ; the sun was invisible, but there was a glare of yellow 
at one ooint of the heavens. A dead calm ; but heavy, op- 
pressed, sultry. There was something in the atmosphere 
that seemed to weigh on the chest. 

“There was a dream I had this morning,” continued 
Hamish, in the same low tones. “It was about my little 
granddaughter Christina. You know my little Christina, 
Duncan. And she said to me, ‘ What have you done with 
Sir Keith Macleod ? Why have you not brought him back ? 
He was under your care, grandfather.’ I did not like that 
dream.” 

“Oh, you are becoming as bad as Sir Keith Macleod 
himself * " said the other. “ He does not sleep. He talks 
to himself. You will become like that if you pay attention 
to foolish dreams, Hamish.” 


384 


MACLEOD OP DARE. 


Hamish’s quick temper leaped up. 

“ What do you mean, Duncan Cameron, by saying, 1 as 
bad as Sir Keith Macleod ? You — you come from Ross: 
perhaps they have not good masters there. I tell you there 
is not any man in Ross, or in Sutherland either, is as good a 
master, and as brave a lad, as Sir Keith Macleod — not any 
one, Duncan Cameron ! ” 

“I did not mean anyth ng like that, Hamish.” said the 
other, humbly. “But there was a breeze this morning. Wc 
could have got over to Loch Tua. Why did we stay hem 
where there is no shelter and no anchorage ? Do you know 
what is likely to come after a day like this ? ” 

“ It is your business to be a sailor on board this yacht: 
it is not your business to say where she will go,” said 
Hamish. 

But all the same the old man was becoming more and 
more alarmed at the ugly aspect of the dead calm. The 
very birds, instead of stalking among the still pools, or lying 
buoyant on the smooth waters, were excitedly calling, and 
whirring from one point to another. 

“ If the equinoctials were to begin now,” said Duncan 
Cameron, “ this is a fine place to meet the equinoctials 1 
An open bay, without shelter; and a gronnd that is no 
ground for an anchorage. It is not two anchors or twenty 
anchors would hold in such ground.” 

Macleod appeared ; the man was suddenly silent. With- 
out a word to either of them — and that was not his wont — 
he passed to the stern of the yacht. Hamish knew from his 
manner that he would not be spoken to. He did not follow 
him, even with all this vague dread on his mind. 

The day wore on to the afternoon. Macleod, who had 
been pacing up and down the deck, suddenly called Hamish. 
Hamish came aft at once. 

“ Hamish,” said he, with a strange sort of laugh, “ do you 
remember this morning, before the light came ? Do you 
remember that I asked you about a brass-band that I heard 
playing ? ” 

Hamish looked at him, and said, with an earnest anxiety, 

“ Oh, Sir Keith, you will pay no heed to that ! It 'svery 
common ; I have heard them say it is very common. Why 
to hear a brass-band, to be sure ! There is nothing more 
common than that. And you will not think you are unweF. 
merely because you think you can hear a brass-band play 
ing.” 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


385 

“ I want you to tell me, Hamish,” said he, in the same 
jesting way, “ whether my eyes have followed the example 
of my ears, and are playing tricks. Do you think they are 
bloodshot, with my lying on deck in the cold ? Hamish, 
what do you see all around ? ” 

The old man looked at the sky, and the shore, and the 
sea. It was a marvellous thing. The world was all en* 
shrouded in a salmon-colored mist : there was no line ol 
horizon visible between the sea and the sky. 

“ It is red, Sir Keith,” said Hamish. 

“ Ah ! Am I in my senses this time ? And what dc 
you think of a red day, Hamish? That is not a usual 
thing.” 

“ Oh, Sir Keith, it will be a wild night this night! And 
we cannot stay here, with this bad anchorage ! ” 

“ And where would you go, Hamish — in a dead calm ? '■ 
Macleod asked, still with a smile on the wan face. 

“ Where would I go ? ” said the old man, excitedly. “ 1 
— I will take care of the yacht. But you, Sir Keith ; oh 1 
you — you will go ashore now. Do you know, sir, the sheil- 
ing that the shepherd had ? It is a poor place ; oh yes ; but 
Duncan Cameron and I will take some things ashore. And 
do you not think we can look after the yacht ? She has met 
the equinoctials before, if it is the equinoctials that are 
beginning. She has met them before ; and cannot she meet 
them now ? But you, Sir Keith, you will go ashore. 

Macleod burst out laughing, in an odd sort of fashion. 

“ Do you think I am good at running away when there is 
any kind of danger, Hamish. Have you got into the English 
way. Would you call me a coward too ? Nonsense, non- 
sense, nonsense, Hamish ! I — why, I am going to drink 3 
glass of the coal-black wine, and have done with it. I will 
drink it to the health of my sweetheart, Hamish ! ” 

“ Sir Keith,” said the old man, beginning to tremble, 
though he but half understood the meaning of the scornful 
mirth, “ 1 have had charge of you since you were a young 
lad.” 

“ Very well ! ” 

h And Lady Macleod will ask of me, 1 Such and such a 
thing happened : what did you do for my son ? ’ Then I wih 
say, ‘ Your ladyship, we were afraid of the equinoctials ; and 
we got Sir Keith to go ashore ; and the next day we wen. 
ashore for him ; and now we have brought him back to Castle 
Dare 1 ” 


MACLEOD OF DAFE. 


386 

“ Hamish Hamish, you are laughing at me ! Or you 
want to call me a coward ? Don’t you know I should be 
afraid of the ghost of the shepherd who killed himself? 
Don’t you know that the English people call me a coward ? ” 

“ May their souls dwell in the downmost hall of perdi- 
tion ! ” said Hamish, with his cheeks becoming a gray* 
white ; “ and every woman that ever came of the accursed 
race ! ” 

He looked at the old man for a second, and he gripped 
his hand. 

“ Do not say that, Hamish — that is folly. But you 
have been my friend. My mother will not forget you — it’s 
not the way of a Macleod to forget — whatever happens to 
me.” 

“ Sir Keith !” Hamish cried, “ I do not know what you 
mean ! But you will gq ashore before the night ? ” 

“ Go ashore,” Macleod answered, with a return to this 
wild, bantering tone, “ when I am going to see my sweet- 
heart ? Oh no ! Tell Christina, now ! Tell Christina to 
ask the young English lady to come into the saloon, for I 
have something to say to her. . Be quick, Hamish ! ” 

Hamish went away ; and before long he returned with 
the answer that the young English lady was in the saloon. 
And now he was no longer haggard and piteous, but joyful ; 
and there was a strange light in his eyes. 

“ Sweetheart,” said he, “ are you waiting for me at last ? 
I have brought you a long way. Shall we drink a glass now 
at the end of the voyage ? ” 

“ Do you wish to insult me ? ” said she ; but there was no 
anger in her voice : there was more of fear in her eyes as she 
regarded him. 

“You have no other message for me than the one you 
gave me last night, Gerty ? ” said he, almost cheerfully. “ It 
is all over, then? You would go away from me forever? 
But we will drink a glass before we go ! ” 

He sprang forward, and caught both her hands in his 
with the grip of a vice. 

“ Do you know what you have done, Gerty ? ” said he, in 
a low voice. “ Oh, you have soft, smooth, English ways ; 
and you are like a rose-leaf ; and you are like a queen, whom 
all people are glad to serve. But do you know that you have 
killed a man’s life ? And there is no penalty for that in the 
South, perhaps ; but you are no longer in the South. Aud 
if you have this very night to drink a glass with me, you 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


387 

will not refuse it ? It is only a glass of the coal-black 
wine ! ” 

She struggled back from him, for there was a look in his 
face that frightened her. But she had a wonderful self 
command. 

“Is that the message I was to hear ? ” she said, coldly. 

“ Why, sweetheart, are you not glad ? Is not that the 
only gladness left for you and for me, that we should drink 
one glass together, and clasp hands, and say good-by? 
What else is there left? What else could come to you and 
to me ? And it may not be this night, or to-morrow night ; 
but one night I think it will come ; and then, sweetheart, we 
will have one more glass together, before the end.” 

He went on deck. He called Hamish. 

“ Hamish,” said he, in a grave, matter of fact way, “ I 
don’t like the look of this evening. Did you say the sheiling 
was still on the island ? ” 

“ Oh yes, Sir Keith,” said Hamish, with great joy ; for he 
thought his advice was going to be taken, after all. 

“ Well, now, you know the gales, when they begin, some? 
times last for two, or three, or four days ; and I will ask you 
to see that Christina takes a good store of things to the 
sheiling before the darkness comes on. Take plenty of 
things now, Hamish, and put them in the sheiling, for I am 
afraid this is going to be a wild night.” 

Now, indeed, all the red light had gone away; and as 
the sun went down there was nothing but a spectral white- 
ness over the sea and the sky ; and the atmosphere was so 
close and sultry that it seemed to suffocate one. Moreover, 
there was a dead calm ; if they had wanted to get away 
from this exposed place, how could they ? They could 
not get into the gig and pull this great yacht over to Loch 
Tua. 

It ,vas with a light heart that Hamish set about this 
thing ; and Christina forthwith filled a hamper with tinned 
meats, and bread, and whiskey, and what not. And fuel was 
taken ashore, too ; and candles, and a store of matches. If 
the gales were coming on, as appeared likely from this 
ominous-looking evening, who could tell how many days and 
nights the young master — and the English lady, too, if he 
desired her company — might not have to stay ashore, while 
the men took the chance of the sea with this yacht, or pei 
haps seized the occasion of some lull to make for some place 
of shelter ? There was Loch Tua, and there was the bay al 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 


388 

Bunessan, and there was the little channel called Polterriv, 
behind the rocks opposite Iona. Any shelter at all wag 
better than this exposed place, with the treacherous an* 
chorage. 

Hamish and Duncan Cameron returned to the yacht. 

“ Will you go ashore now, Sir Keith ? ” the old man 
said. 

“ Oh no ; I am not going ashore yet, It is not yet time 
to run away, Hamish.” 

He spoke in a friendly and pleasant fashion, though 
Hamish, in his increasing alarm, thought it no proper time 
for jesting. They hauled the gig up to the davits, however, 
and again the yacht lay in dead silence in this little bay. 

The evening grew to dusk ; the only change visible in 
the spectral world of pale yellow-white mist was the appear 
ance in the sky of a number of small, detached bulbous- 
looking clouds of a dusky blue-gray. They had not drifted 
hither, for there was no wind. They had only appeared. 
They were absolutely motionless. 

But the heat and the suffocation in this atmosphere 
became almost insupportable, The men, with bare heads, 
and jerseys unbuttoned at the neck, were continually going 
to the cask of fresh water beside the windlass. Nor was there 
any change when the night came on. If anything, the night 
was hotter than the evening had been. They awaited in 
silence what might come of this ominous calm. 

Hamish came aft. 

“ I beg your pardon, Sir Keith,” said he, “ but I am 
thinking we will have an anchor^watch to-night. ,, 

“You will have no anchor-watch to-night,” Macleod 
answered, slowly, from out of the darkness. “ I will be all 
the anchor-watch you will need, Hamish, until the morning.” 

“You, sir!” Hamish cried. “I have been waiting to 
take you ashore : and surely it is ashore that you are 
going ! ” 

Just as he had spoken there was a sound that all the 
world seemed to stand still to hear. It was a low murmur- 
ing sound of thunder ; but it was so remote as almost to be 
inaudible. The next moment an awful thing occurred. The 
two men standing face to face in the dark suddenly found 
themselves in a blaze of blinding steel-blue light ; and at the 
very same instant the thunder-roar crackled and shook all 
around them like the firing of a thousand cannon. How 
the wild echoes went booming over the sea 1 Then they 


MACLEOD OF DAZE. 389 

weie in the black night again. There was a period of awed 
silence. 

“ Hamish,” Macleod said, quickly, “ do as I tell you 
now ! Lower the gig ; take the men with you, and Christina, 
and go ashore, and remain in the sheiling till the morning.” 

“ I will not ! ” Hamish cried. “ Oh, Sir Keith, would 
you have me do that ? ” 

Macleod had anticipated his refusal. Instantly he went 
forward and called up Christina. He ordered Duncan 
Cameron and John Cameron to lower away the gig. He got 
them all in but Hamish. 

“ Hamish,” said he, “ you are a smaller man than I. Is it 
on such a night, that you would have me quarrel with you ? 
Must I throw you into the boat ? ” 

The old man clasped his trembling hands together as if 
in prayer ; and he said, with an agonized and broken voice, 

“ Oh, Sir Keith, you are my master, and there is nothing 
I will not do for you ; but only this one night you will let 
me remain with the yacht ? I will give you the rest of my 
life ; but only this one night — ” 

“ Into the gig with you ! ” Macleod cried, angrily. “Why, 
man, don t you think I can keep anchor-watch ? ” But then 
he added, very gently, “ Hamish, shake hands with me now. 
You were my friend, and you must get ashore before the sea 
rises.” 

“ I will stay in the dingy, then ? ” the old man entreated. 

“You will go ashore, Hamish; and this very instant, 
too. If the gale begins, how will you get ashore. Good 
by, Hamish — good-night / ” 

Another white sheet of flame quivered all around them, 
just as this black figure was descending into the gig ; and then 
the fierce hell of sounds broke loose once more. Sea and 
sky together seemed to shudder at the wild uproar, and far 
away the sounds went thundering through the hollow night. 
How could one hear if there was any sobbing in that depart- 
ing boat, or any last cry of farewell ? It was Ulva calling 
now, and Fladda answering from over the black water ; and 
the Dutchman is surely awake at last ! 

There came a stirring of wind from the east, and tne sea 
began to moan. Surely the poor fugitives must have reached 
the shore now. And then there was a strange noise in the 
distance : in the awful silence between the peals of thundei 
it would be heard ; it came nearer and nearer — a low mur- 
muring noise, but full of secret life and thrill — it came along 


390 


MACLEOD OF DARE. 


like the tread of a thousand arnres — and then the gale 
struck its first blow. The yacht reeled under the stroke 
but her bows staggered up again like a dog that has been 
felled, and after one or two convulsive plunges she clung 
hard at the strained cables. And now the gale was growing 
in fury, and the sea rising. Blinding showers of rain swept 
over, hissing and roaring ; the white tongues of flame were 
shooting this way and that across the startled heavens ; and 
there was a more awful thunder than even the falling of the 
Atlantic surge booming into the great sea-caves. In the 
abysmal darkness the spectral arms of the ocean rose white 
in their angry clamor ; and then another blue gleam would 
lay bare the great heaving and wreathing bosom of the deep. 
What devil’s dance is this ? Surely it cannot be Ulva — 
Ulva the green-shored — Ulva that the sailors, in their love 
of her, call softly Ool-a-va — that is laughing aloud with wild 
laughter on this awful night ? And Colonsay, and Lunga, 
and Fladda — they were beautiful and quiet in the still sum- 
mer-time ; but now they have gone mad, and they are flinging 
back the plunging sea in white masses of foam, and they are 
shrieking in their fierce joy of the strife. And Staffa — 
Staffa is far away and alone ; she is trembling to her core : 
how long will the shuddering caves withstand the mighty 
hammer of the Atlantic surge ? And then again the sudden 
wild gleam startles the night, and one sees, with an appal- 
ling vividness, the driven white waves and the black island ; 
and then again a thousand echoes go booming along the 
iron-bound coast. What can be heard in the roar of the 
hurricane, and the hissing of rain, and the thundering whirl 
of the waves on the rocks ? Surely not the glad last cry : 
Sweetheart ! your health ! your health in the coal- 
black wine? 

******* 

The poor fugitives crouching in among the rocks : is it 
the blinding rain or the driven white surf that is in their 
eyes ? But they have sailors’ eyes ; they can see through 
the awful storm ; and their gaze is fixed on one small green 
point far out there in the blackness — the starboard light of 
the doomed ship. It wavers like a will-o’-the-wisp, but it 
does not recede ; the old Umpire still clings bravely to her 
chain-cables. 

And amidst all the din of the storm they hear the voice 
of Hamish lifted aloud in lamentation : — 

“ Oh, the brave lad ! the brave lad ! And who is to save 


MACLEOD OF DA EE. 


39 * 


my young master now ? and who will carry this tale back to 
Castle Dare ? They will say to me : ‘ Hamish, you had 
charge of the young lad : you put the first gun in his hand : 
you had charge of him : he had the love of a son for you : 
what is it you have done with him this night ? * He is my 
Absalom ; he is my brave young lad : oh, do you think that 
I will let him drown and do nothing to try to save him ? Do 
you think that ? Duncan Cameron, are you a man ? Will 
you get into the gig with me and pull out to the Umpire 'l ” 

“ By God,” said Duncan Cameron, solemnly, “ I will do 
that ! I have no wife ; I do not care. I will go into the 
gig w'th you, Hamish; but we will never reach the yacht — 
this night or any night that is to come.” 

Then the old woman Christina shrieked aloud, and caught 
her husband by the arm. 

“ Hamish ? Hamish ! Are you going to drown yourself 
before my eyes ? ” 

He shook her hand away from him. 

“ My young master ordered me ashore : I have come 
ashore. But I myself, I order myself back again. Duncan 
Cameron, they will never say that we stood by and saw 
Macleod of Dare go down to his grave ! ” 

They emerged from the shelter of this great rock ; the 
hurricane was so fierce that they had to cling to one boulder 
after another to save themselves from being whirled into the 
sea. But were these two men by themselves ? Not likely ! 
It was a party of five men that now clambered along the 
slippery rocks to the shingle up which they had hauled the 
gig, and one wild lightning-flash saw them with their hands 
on the gunwale, reay to drag her down to the water. There 
was a surf raging there that would have swamped twenty 
gigs : these five men were going of their own free-will and 
choice to certain death — so much had they loved the young 
master. 

But a piercing cry from Christina arrested them. They 
’coked out to sea. YVhat was this sudden and awful thing? 
Instead of the starboard green light, behold ! the port red 
light — and that moving ? Oh see ! how it recedes, wavering, 
flickering through the whirling vapor of the storm ! And 
there again is the green light ! Is it a witch’s dance, or are 
they strange death-fires hovering over the dark ocean grave ? 
But Hamish knows too well what it means ; and with a wild 
cry of horror and despair, the old man sinks on his knees and 
clasps his hands, and stretches them out to the terrible sea. 


392 


MACLEOD OF DARE . 


“ Oh Macleod, Macleod ! are you going away from me 
forever and we will go up the hills together and on the lochs 
together no more — no more — no more ! Oh, the brave lad 
that he was ! — and the good master ! And who was not proud 
of him — my handsome lad — and he the last of the Macleod? 
of Dare ? ” 

Arise, Hamish, and have the gig hauled up into shelter ; 
for will ycu not want it when the gale abates, and the seas 
a e smooth, and you have to go away to Dare, you and youi 
cc mrades, with silent tongues and sombre eyes ? Why this 
wild lamentation in the darkness of the night ? The stricken 
heart that you loved so well has found peace at last ; the 
coal-black wine has been drank ; there is an end ! And you, 
you poor cowering fugitives, who only see each other’s terri 
fied faces when the wan gleam of the lightning blazes through 
the sky, perhaps it is well that you should weep and wail for 
the young master ; but that is soon over, and the day will 
break. And this is what I am thinking of now : when the 
light comes, and the seas are smooth, then which of you — oh, 
which of you all will tell this tale to the two women at Castle 
Dare. 

******* 

So fair shines the morning sun on the white sands of 
Iona ! The three days’ gale is over. Behold, how Ulva — 
Ulva the green-shored — the Ool-a-va that the sailors love — 
is laughing out again to the clear skies ! And the great skarts 
on the shores of Erisgeir are spreading abroad their dusky 
wings to get them dried in the sun ; and the seals are bask- 
ing on the rocks in Loch-na-Keal ; and in Loch Scridain the 
white gulls sit buoyant on the blue sea. There go the Gome- 
tra men in their brown-sailed boat to look after the lobster- 
traps at Staffa, and very soon you will see the steamer come 
round the far Cailleach Point ; over at Erraidh they are sig- 
nalling to the men at Dubh-artach, and they are glad to have 
a message from them after the heavy gale. The new, bright 
d ly has begun ; the world has awakened again to the joyous 
sunlight ; there is a chattering of the sea-birds all along the 
shores. It is a bright, eager, glad day for all the world. But 
there is silence in Castle Dare 1 


THE ENR. 


marks the women of our households when they undertake to make their 
homes bright and cheery. Nothing deters them. Their weary work may 
be as long as the word which begins this paragraph, but they prove their 
regard for decent homes by their indefatigability. What a pity that any 
of them should add to their toil by neglecting to use Sapolio. It reduces 
the labor of cleaning and scouring at least one-half. 10c. a cake. Sold by 
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The treatment of many thousands of 
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